


Curse Breaker

by All_the_damned_vampires



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Brief references to torture--including sexual assault and mutilation, Brothers, Demon Deals, Handfeeding, Hellhounds, Horror, Humiliation, M/M, Magically Induced Asexuality, Memory Magic, Mystery, Rimming, Service Submission, Sibling Rivalry, Slavery, Spells & Enchantments, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 21:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 50,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: In Heaven, all angels bow to Michael, immortal god and supreme ruler, the architect of peace and order.  At his command, Castiel, a humble librarian, is sent to Hell to serve as ambassador, the liaison between regimented Heaven and unruly Hell.  Castiel doesn't feel up to the task, especially after meeting Lord Winchester, the charismatic and cruel ruler of a large territory in Hell. At Winchester Hall Castiel finds secrets, lies and manipulations. But he may also find the answer to the disturbing dreams that have long disrupted his sleep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements: Thank you to m14mouse for collaborating with me. The artwork you created is haunting and magical, and I love it dearly. Thank you to tipsy_kitty for beta reading and all around awesomeness. A special thank you to dollylux for some sex scene brainstorming.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> In this story, the terms "angel" and "demon" refer to races of people.
> 
> angels: magic users living in the orderly society of Heaven, devoted to their immortal leader Michael, both ruler and living god.
> 
> demons: magic users enslaved to the aristocracy in the land of Hell. Recently, a slave uprising deposed the rulers of Hell and destabilized the land. Hell is now a loose collection of territories, ruled by recently freed demon despots.

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/all_the_damned/68396522/13230/13230_original.jpg)

Zachariah was droning on and on, but nothing he said was of any value to Castiel.  He spoke of duty and sacrifice, of honor and diplomacy, but nothing useful.  Nothing that would help Castiel where he was going, no information that would keep him safe and whole.

Hell.  The land of the demon race.  A place of dark magic and lawless chaos. Castiel would have shuddered if the constricting fabric of his coat allowed it.

Nevertheless, he nodded along to Zachariah's words at the appropriate intervals, his mind somewhere else.

In a coach warded from dark magic, conveyed by mechanism rather than beast of burden, Castiel sat stiff and solemn opposite Zachariah.  He had met the man only once before, when Zachariah had come to the Archives where Castiel worked—had worked—and informed him of his new position.  The powers that be in Heaven had decided that Castiel would serve as Ambassador to Hell.  Ambassador! Despite Castiel's lack of experience, not only in diplomacy, but in basic social interactions, he has been tapped for that role.  A librarian buried deep inside the Archives, restoring fragile, old tomes with magic, forgetting sometimes to even stop for his meals, was a poor choice, Castiel thought. Nevertheless, Michael had spoken and Castiel obeyed.  Even Zachariah, as powerful as he was, existed as only a cog in the smooth-running bureaucracy of Heaven. He was the obedient servant of Michael, their ruler, their living god, just as Castiel was, and neither of them would have questioned Michael's will and wisdom.

So Michael willed it, so mote it be.

They had crossed the border between Heaven and Hell an hour prior, through the warded boundary guarded by Heaven's most fearless soldiers.  Castiel had watched as the coach passed, the lines of Michael's warriors, the impassive faces, the impressive spread of gilded wings arching out from behind their armored backs--weapons in their own right.  He had felt a strange itch, a longing, creeping skin along his shoulder blades, as if his own wings should be out and ready, instead of tucked safely away beneath their wards.  A tool no scholar ever need.

Perhaps it was fear.

The change between Heaven and Hell had been immediate; the manicured green and gold of Heaven's civilization giving way to volcanic black soil and stunted, spindly forest.  Everything in Hell had looked seared with cold, twisted and blackened. Inside the coach, the comfortable temperature hadn't changed, but Zachariah had produced a silk handkerchief and mopped at the sweat on his shiny brow. Nerves, then, and Castiel could understand and sympathize.  Hell was a harsh, dangerous place and despite his orders, Zachariah probably took no pleasure in traveling into it to deliver Castiel.  At least Zachariah would be returning home after, leaving Castiel alone on foreign soil, to muddle through as best he could.

Turning his mind further from the buzzing of Zachariah's voice, Castiel thought about what he knew about Hell.  He had tried asking Zachariah, polite queries that had led to the older angel launching into a fresh monologue about representing Heaven and 'showing honor to Michael', so instead Castiel turned inward to his own scant bank of knowledge, most of it gleaned from the books he restored.

Hell.  It was a land of upheaval, whereas Heaven was ever constant and never changing.  A land of slaves, of rigid class structure. In the past few years, revolt had spread like wildfire through the loose collection of territories that made up Hell.  A revolution, as the commoners that toiled under the aristocracy had overthrown their rulers, as the slaves had risen up, using the darkest of magic.  War—Castiel remembered talk of war, of skirmishes at the border—but he was deep in the bowels of the Archives at that time.  Safe in the heart of the city, where war seemed to touch nothing.  Every bit of news had seemed a fantasy, like a play performed on stage. Entering his middle years, long assigned to the bloodless work of restoring books, Castiel had felt no fear of being called to fight.

When the dust had settled, one man in particular had emerged victorious in Hell. A common slave, risen to the ruling rank, seat held by force.  A man determined to keep the skirmishes away from Heaven and strictly on Hell's soil.  Lord Winchester.  One of the few warlords in Hell willing to broker a peace with Heaven.

Of Lord Winchester, Castiel knew little.  It was that way, he supposed, with commoners.  The history recorded in the books Castiel painstakingly restored rarely mentioned the laborers, the bakers, those who tended fields and children.  Insignificant, the people that quietly kept a nation running.  Now, Castiel supposed, they would have to tell Lord Winchester's story, to put it to written word.  He must be truly formidable, to have defeated the dark mage that had held his leash.

Castiel suppressed a nervous sigh and glanced out over the blasted hillsides, the jagged outcroppings of rock.  The air was hazy, tempering the sun and making it appear red overhead.  A strange, harsh land.

The carriage rolled over the rough-hewn road.  It had once been smooth and paved, that Castiel could see, but it was neglected.  Here and there pavers were strewn in cracked disarray, blasted up from the ground, the earth around them scorched by dark magic.  But as they passed a small, mean village, Castiel saw demons, their faces hostile and curious at the sight of a passing carriage, repairing the damage that battle had left in the road.

"A very good sign," Zachariah remarked, noting the workers, before launching into a condescending little speech about the need for order in Hell.  Castiel smiled blandly and nodded, trying not to shift in his seat as his legs grew numb and his head began to ache. His left shoulder, the one that gave him particular trouble after a long day bent over books, was throbbing again.  He tried to think of it as good preparation for his future role.  Feeling one way and acting another was sure to be a useful skill.

As they traveled on, the paved road became rutted gravel.  Despite the smooth mechanisms of the carriage, it jolted over the rough road, and several times Castiel had to brace a hand against the side of the carriage.  As the day slipped away, the sun dropping lower, Zachariah produced a flask from his coat and sipped wetly at the contents.  He offered it to Castiel, who declined with a polite smile, even though he had been thirsty for some time.  The idea of placing his lips on something that had been touched by Zachariah's loose-lipped mouth repelled him.   Finally, fortified by drink, Zachariah quieted, his eyelids drooping.  He propped his head up against the carriage door and began to snore.  Now Castiel sighed audibly.  The sawing noise of Zachariah's snores was no better than his nasal, rambling voice. It would have been nice, Castiel thought, to be able to quiet his mind and sleep.  He couldn't.  He had too many questions.  And he was too afraid.  It would have been nice to have a book, but they were all safely tucked away in his luggage.  It had seemed rude to read when Zachariah was convinced he was imparting such important information, or so Castiel had thought.  Now it was too late. Castiel sat quietly and watched the landscape roll by.

He must have dozed, because when he blinked again the sky was darker, the sunset blood-red behind the clouds.  There was a strange sound outside, a low snarling rumble, coming from near the carriage wheels.  What could it be?

"Look outside," Zachariah said and Castiel jerked his head up.  Zachariah was watching him, eyes large and anticipatory in his doughy face. Castiel craned his neck to look out the carriage window, then jerked back in alarm.

Running beside the carriage, a blur of dark fur, was a pack of large predators.  Castiel looked again and caught a glimpse of blood red eyes, the glint of teeth in the waning light.  The lead beast was snapping at the wheels and, as if he could feel Castiel's regard, he looked up and made eye contact.  Castiel's heart leapt in his throat.  Then there was a strange, chilling howl, and the creatures running beside the carriage became somehow…indistinct.  More blur that shape.

"Dark magic," Zachariah supplied, still mopping at his brow. "Even the beasts in this land have it.  Those are hellhounds.  They can blend into their environment, camouflage themselves.  When they want to, they can move so silently you won't hear them coming.  Rip your throat out before you can blink."

"Can they get in?" Castiel asked, alarmed.  True, the carriage was warded.  But Castiel had little in the way of defensive magic.  The spells he knew were pertinent to his staid and unexciting job.  Zachariah, a bureaucrat, was sure to have even less.

"We're guests of Lord Winchester," Zachariah said finally.  He had been staring at Castiel almost expectantly, but then he had shaken his head as if flicking away a particularly annoying thought. "We have safe passage."

"I don't think beasts like that understand the concept of a ceasefire," Castiel replied.

"You'd be surprised.  Even the wind and the rain might hesitate to disobey Winchester.  And it's not just a ceasefire.  We are at peace now.  Michael and Lord Winchester are allies."

"Heaven and Hell? At peace?" It was the first useful information out of Zachariah's mouth.

"Heaven and Winchester, at peace.  Until the next upstart comes and knocks the man of the false throne he's carved out for himself." Zachariah made a little moue of distaste with his wet-lipped mouth.  "Hell's a mess of petty despots. All squabbling over land, power.  One rises and is just as quickly put down. But here, in Winchester's territory, we're safe enough."

"It might be hard to knock down a man," Castiel said, "who commands the wind and rain."

Zachariah smiled slowly. "True. True." 

Then he launched into another monologue about Michael's expectations, while Castiel discreetly moved his leg farther away from the door, but kept his eyes on the rushing, snapping blur that was the hellhounds.

It was twilight when the dark shape of a castle appeared on the horizon.  It loomed larger and larger as the carriage approached, and Castiel could soon make out walls made of black stone, as dark as Hell's soil.  As if on cue, the hellhound pack peeled off, no longer keeping pace with the carriage, heading instead for the hills.  The carriage rumbled over one bridge, then another, before the road once again became smooth pavers, the ride gentler.  Castiel could see no guards, but the portcullis lifted readily to allow them into the torch-lit courtyard.

The carriage pulled around before the main door and Castiel craned his neck again to look out.  It was a huge thing of metal, not wood, scorched around the edges, battered by the marks of magical battle.  Suddenly the carriage door was wrenched open and Castiel nearly toppled out.  Another demon, clothed in black, face dour, was stepping back, giving Castiel little choice but to cower back into the carriage or step out into the courtyard. 

He took a deep breath and stepped out.  The air was biting cold. The courtyard was gritty with ash and it flew up in a fine powder under Castiel's foot, immediately dulling the shine of his black leather boots, sifting up to flirt with the hem of his long dark coat.  All new clothes, commissioned for Castiel's new assignment, meant to signify his new role, his new duties.  Castiel winced and tried to step lightly on his travel stiff legs.  Another demon was unloading Castiel's trunks, hefting them onto his broad back and lurching away before Castiel could even open his mouth to speak.

Castiel turned around, shivering.  Zachariah was sitting in the carriage still, and he motioned for the demon to shut the door.  Castiel rushed up to the window.

"Please!" He said and Zachariah raised his head expectantly.  Castiel tried to temper the terror in his voice. "Please. You're not coming in?"

"Not welcome," Zachariah said and then smiled an indulgent smile. "Castiel, you'll do fine.  You will.  Michael is depending on you. In his name."

"In his name," Castiel repeated automatically.

"I'll return in a few months' time.  Check on your…progress."

"But what am I supposed to do?" Castiel blurted out, too frustrated to hide the emotion in his words.

"What you must," Zachariah said, and then he tapped at the roof of the carriage.  It wheeled around and was out the courtyard gates within moments in a swirl of ash.  Castiel watched as the portcullis came down with a dull thunk, sealing him inside.

The demon who had opened the carriage door was now standing at the opening of the keep.  The metal doors looked too large and unwieldy for one man to maneuver, but they were both open.  The blackness beyond the open doors waited, like a mouth ready to swallow Castiel whole.

He squared his shoulders.  He was a denizen of Heaven, disciplined, enlightened.  Michael's choice.  He would make a good impression and he would comport himself admirably.

There was no other option.

Stepping inside, the temperature dropped further, the air of the hallway a bite of frost.  A few careful steps in and then there were torches, here and there, providing stingy light.  Castiel followed the silent demon leading the way. 

_I am graced with light and order_ , Castiel thought as he walked, the mantra of all Heaven's angels.  He was naturally quiet, reserved, and he was grateful for this aspect of his personality as he strolled behind a demon who seemed to disinvite small talk, who barely seemed to acknowledge Castiel's presence behind him in the hallway.  Castiel counted his blessings further: the warm formal coat that was dispelling the chill in the keep, the responsibility and honor Michael had gifted him along with this post.  He reached for more, struggling for gratitude, and for a brief moment felt a shiver of terror when he couldn't think of anything else to be thankful for.  He wished for a quiet alcove, a moment, the time to gather himself with prayer.

The hallway opened onto a large main room, dominated by a large table.  There was a huge stone fireplace with a roaring fire, but the room was still shockingly cold.  Castiel could see why: one of the walls had been blasted out, the stone scorched and scoured.  A battle had been fought here; the walls nearly pulsed with dark intent.  Beyond the table Castiel could see the night sky, stars pricking the blackness here and there between the clouds.  He stepped closer.

Two steps away from the edge of the table and Castiel drew short with a jolt.  At the head of the table, night sky at his back, was a man.  He was sitting so still, so motionless, Castiel almost hadn't noticed him.

"Hello?" Castiel stepped closer.

Green eyes were staring at him, firelight flickering in their depths, their intensity unnerving.  The man was coldly handsome, with sandy hair and a face of sharp angles, chiseled jaw rough with beard.  He sat there, staring, saying nothing, unmoving.  If not for the brightness of his eyes, Castiel would have thought he was addressing an oversized doll.

"I'm Castiel," Castiel offered lamely, remembering his role, his duty. "I'm Michael's…I'm Michael's. Who may I have the honor of addressing?"

Castiel kept his tone light, friendly, but as he spoke, the man's mouth tightened, and his eyes became even colder.

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're who Michael sent, right?  Little angel he's offered up to broker peace?" The voice was rough and low. A harsh voice for such a pretty-faced man.  There was a whispering in the room, and Castiel realized that ringing the room, here and there, were a few demons standing in the shadows.

"Little?" Castiel had never been referred to as "little" before.

"A peace offering. A gift." The man's green gaze sharpened. "A prize?"

"I think you misunderstand," Castiel said stiffly, feeling uncomfortable. "I am the liaison to—"

"I know who you are," the man said, the corner of his full mouth quirked.  Perhaps he had been teasing Castiel.  His gaze was still predatory.  Penetrating.  Then he said dismissively, "The carriage will come for you tomorrow."

"Sir?"

"I have no need of Michael's spy," the man said. "Hell is unstable enough, without the finger of Heaven stirring up trouble."

"I'm not a spy!" Castiel blurted, offended. Then it crossed his mind that perhaps that was what Michael intended.  He had no idea what his real role was, and Zachariah had not been forthcoming.

"My demons have been vetted, vouched for," the man continued, still appraising Castiel with an uncomfortable gaze. "Loyal, biddable.  With skills to help build up this kingdom. They've earned their place.  I have no desire to feed a useless, treacherous mouth."

"Michael is your ally!" Castiel exclaimed, feeling his temper pricked. "And I am not useless!"

The man continued to regard Castiel and Castiel flushed, feeling foolish.  Too easily, he had been prodded into showing his temper.  On his better days, he would have liked to pretend that it wasn't there, that he was as mild-mannered as a librarian should be, that age and experience had tempered him.  That the path to righteous wrath wasn't so easy, bubbling just below the surface.

"Not useless?" the man repeated.  He quirked a brow, and Castiel couldn't help but feel he was being tricked somehow.  There was a shift in the quality of the firelight to his left, a flicker of shadow, and Castiel felt his eyes being drawn that way before the formidable man before him cleared his throat impatiently. "What can you do?"

"I'm a librarian," Castiel replied quietly, anger draining away.  He thought about what he had seen: roads in disrepair, blasted buildings, villages razed.  Winchester territory probably needed mages with building spells, magic that could repair bridges and walls.  Castiel's quiet magic probably wouldn't suit.

"I repair books," Castiel continued. "I…I restore them."

Now the man seemed intrigued.  He sat up straighter and beckoned to one of his demons, whispering into the man's ear.  The demon disappeared from the room.

"I'm Dean," the man said into the silence between himself and Castiel.

"Lord Winchester," Castiel replied, bowing.  There was a ripple of noise from the demons clustered around the walls of the room.  An uneasy sound.

"Lord Winchester," the man repeated, frowning.  Then he nodded.  The demon he had waved away was rushing back into the room, a heavy book in his hands.  He threw it down on the table in front of Castiel with a thud, sending up a puff of dust.

Castiel stepped closer, blinking in dismay.  It had been a beautiful book once, leather bound, with gilded, spelled engravings.  Castiel couldn't really say what all had happened to the tome.  The brittle pages appeared both crumbled with age and dryness, and mildewed green with damp and mold.  The leather was peeling back, both waterlogged and burned.

"A crime," Castiel murmured.  He reached out and touched the book with a finger, probing with his craft.  Beetles skittered away from between the pages.  There was something…some dark magic, woven into the book. A nasty piece of craft.  Castiel drew up defensively, weaving a subtle self-defensive spell.

He only had a moment before the curse on the book rebounded on him.

It was a blast of swampy heat, searing his skin.  Castiel's eyes watered as his nose filled with the smell of fetid rotting things, of dying.  His vision blurred and he wasn't in the cold-blasted room of Winchester Hall.  Instead, he was sinking, mouth filling, stuffed with sand and rot.  He was drowning.

Mustering his defenses, Castiel cast an incantation that was suddenly clamoring in his mind.  It wasn't a spell he'd thought he would use, one to restore the book, to mend the pages and smooth the leather.  Instead it was sharp…vicious.  A spell of attack.

He leveled it at the book just as the sensation of rotting meat filled his throat.  There was a blast of clean cold air, fresh and sweet, and then the spell was retreating, breaking, pulling back from him, curdling and curling up.  Fading away. Dying.

Castiel opened his eyes, gasping softly.  The book sat before him, now benign.  It was still warped with heat and wet.  Castiel reached out a finger and cast another spell, gentler, pushing his strength and his will into the silent words in his mind.  The pages straightened to the crispness they would have experienced when first bound.  The leather cover smoothed, rich and butter-soft.  Further magic would be needed to sharpen the gilt words. Later. Nevertheless, Castiel couldn't help but manage a small smile.  He was pleased with his work.

"Adequate," a voice said.  Castiel looked up, blinking.  His body felt weary from the expulsion of magic, of the internal battle he had waged. His left shoulder throbbed.  That demon, Dean, Lord Winchester, was looking at him. He was smiling cruelly.

"The repair of knowledge hasn't been a priority…until now," Lord Winchester said. "There are many books that could do with your…deft touch."

"You…you bastard!" Castiel growled.  Even the words felt heavy, dragged out of his weary throat.

"My parentage was well documented, I assure you that isn't the case."

"I could have died!  That spell could have killed me!"

"It didn't," Winchester said, voice cold. "You survived.  And proved your worth. Hell isn't particularly forgiving."

"Damn you," Castiel said again.

"Shall I call the carriage to come fetch you in the morning?" Winchester asked, one brow raised.

Castiel froze at the words.  Zachariah's droning words of honor and privilege and duty reverberated in his brain. Michael's command, the duty he had personally set aside for Castiel.  He was comporting himself terribly at the moment, a creature of temper and impatience.  He was setting a bad example.

Taking a deep breath, he quieted his heart, his mind.  He had shown pride, impatience, wrath.  Emotions that were no part of Heaven's grace.

"Forgive me," Castiel said quietly.  He reigned in his temper.  It had been a test.  A test.  Castiel needed not to fail.

"Plead my mercy," Winchester said, tone satisfied and lazy. He pointed to the floor.

Humiliation.  If he thought it would touch Castiel, he was mistaken.  Subservience was a requirement in Heaven.  Service without question, service to the Light, to Michael. Kneeling was familiar and was no hardship.  In truth, it centered Castiel.  He was grateful to have a moment to collect himself on his knees.

Castiel knelt.  He was quiet for a moment, taking in several slow breaths, letting his temper boil away. _I am graced with light and order._ He lowered his gaze and said, "I plead your mercy, Lord Winchester."

"Prettily said," Winchester replied, voice thick with satisfaction.  His words sent a rill of sensation up Castiel's back and Castiel suppressed a shudder. As he wearily made to rise, Dean said, "No. Stay.  I like you on your knees."

Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat at the speculative tone in Dean's voice and remained on his knees.

"Like I was saying, our library is in a poor state," Winchester continued. "I've little need for a puppet of Michael's, but a scholar…"

"I am Michael's," Castiel interrupted, unable to help himself.  This was not how he had foreseen this meeting.  He had expected to be ill-informed, to be at a disadvantage.  And he was. But his role, who he was, that had always been clear.

"A man cannot have two masters," Winchester said, but there was something in his voice…humor?

"I belong to Michael," Castiel repeated firmly.  His tongue swiped across his nerve-dry mouth as he thought, fast. "Michael has entrusted my service…to you.  I would be honored to see to your library."

"As if you're doing me a favor," Dean muttered, but he waved a hand when Castiel finally glanced up. "Very well.  You may stay.  For now."

"Thank you."

"I'll have a demon see you to your room."

Dismissed, Castiel finally rose wearily.  His stomach roiled a bit as he stood, but he pressed it down ruthlessly, smoothing a strand of hair out of his eyes.  Lord Winchester's head was tilted towards a dark doorway past the fireplace. A dismissal.  Just beside it, a demon waited patiently.

Castiel stepped wearily around the table, trying to keep eye contact with Winchester.  The carpet before the fireplace was a convoluted, twisted pattern and Castiel stumbled back when the embroidered fibers seemed to suddenly coiled before him, rising up before his aching eyes like a snake in the flickering light.

"What?" Castiel mumbled.

The carpet moaned.  Castiel blinked his blurry gaze and gasped.  There was a boy, naked and long-limbed, lying on the rug before the fire.  His long brown limbs nearly blended in with the muted colors of the carpet. As Castiel watched the boy twisted and writhed, drawing his legs up and then pressing them out, muscles trembling.  The boy looked to be in agony. He let out another suppressed moan, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth.

"What in the world?" Castiel said, and made to drop to his knees next to the boy.  Thin and tall, he looked to be on the way out of adolescence, nearly full grown.

"Leave it," said a bored voice.

Castiel looked up.  Winchester was regarding the boy with a dismissive expression.

"He's hurt."

"Of course he is.  Leave him be."

Castiel reached out.  The boy's brow was wet and fever-hot.

"He's ill!"

"So?"

"So call a healer!" Castiel exclaimed.  The boy blinked up at him.  His eyes were dark, bright with heat, instead of the hazy blue Castiel had half-imagined.  The boy began to shiver.  Castiel bit his lip.  He had very little healing magic.

"He doesn't need a physician.  He needs blood.  He's a leech," Winchester said.

"Then give him blood," Castiel said.  He didn't know what a leech was, but he couldn't stand the careless tone of Winchester's voice, the painful way the boy writhed and shook on the carpet.

"When it's needed," Winchester said, voice still maddeningly cold. "When I have need of him. He won't die from the lack of it."

"You're a monster," Castiel snarled, the control of his temper fraying.  He shrugged out of his formal coat, struggling with the buttons.  They ran the length of the coat from chin to hem, as well as in a row along each sleeve.  He impatiently prized the ones on his sleeves open, before buttoning the line of little black buttons on his chest. Half done, he gave up and wrenched the jacket over his head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Winchester said lazily.

Castiel draped his coat over the boy.  He watched as the young man curled up inside it, pulling it around his form.  His shivers abated slightly, and Castiel couldn't help but keep his hand against the boy's forehead, as if he could heal by touch alone.

"Very well," Winchester said finally.  He gestured to the demon in the doorway. "Help our little angel carry Sam upstairs to his room."

"What?" Both the name and the instructions sent Castiel reeling.

"You're volunteering to care for him, aren't you?" Winchester asked sardonically. "To nurse him back to health?  Or are you just going to leave him in front of the fire?"

"Why aren't you doing anything?" Castiel demanded. Sam.  The boy's name was Sam.

"I told you.  He won't die from it.  Now what are you going to do?"

Castiel stood and addressed the waiting demon directly, tired of arguing with Lord Winchester, the hidden meanings in the conversation they were having. "Carry him to my room."

The demon hesitated, looking at Lord Winchester, and Dean nodded.

"You've got a lot to learn," Dean said maddeningly as the demon hefted Sam, and Castiel followed behind. "You don't know much about the ways of Hell, do you?  Well, you'll soon find out."

There was nothing for Castiel to say to that, so he turned his back on Lord Winchester, and followed the demon out of the hall.

 


	2. Chapter 2

His first morning in Hell was full of mist, and only the lightening of the sky outside Castiel's window indicated that dawn had truly come.  Yawning, Castiel stood and stretched, then walked over to poke at the anemic fire burning in the hearth.

He had been up all night, tending to Sam.

The boy was currently sprawled under the covers of Castiel's bed.  The room Castiel had been shown had been surprisingly luxurious.  Castiel had expected something smaller, more like a cell, and perhaps that was uncharitable on Castiel's part, a prejudice against Lord Winchester.  Instead, the room was filled with lux draperies and dark, damask furniture, perfectly serviceable if perhaps a little too ornate.  The furniture was old, but in good repair. The bed was big enough for three or four people, a far cry from the narrow cot Castiel kept in the Archives.  Even Sam, as long-limbed as he was, looked small lying there.

Like the rest of the castle, the room was chilled. Cold seemed to emanate from the stones in the walls, and the fire in the hearth did little to dismiss the chill.  Throughout the night, nursing Sam through his fever, Castiel had been tempted to burrow under the covers with Sam, just to get some warmth into his body.  Without his coat, in his shirt sleeves, the cold seemed to cut right through his clothes and down to the bone.  There were small magicks—warming spells and such—but Castiel had never learned them.  They had seemed indulgent, time-consuming, when there was more meaningful magic to be learned.  Like the healing spells that were the purview of Healers, a distraction and not necessary.  Now, Castiel wished he had diversified in his studies more, though such behavior wasn't directly encouraged in Heaven.

 Finally, his trunks made an appearance, brought in by another sour-faced demon, as interchangeable as the last one.  He pulled open the one that held his clothes and burrowed into a thick, informal sweater, long over the heels of his hands.

Castiel yawned. All night long, he had held vigil at Sam's side, feeling useless.  No healing mage was summoned, but Dean must have given Castiel some authority, for demons appeared at regular intervals, heeding Castiel's requests for clean water, for compresses, for herbs to reduce a fever. Despite Castiel's efforts, Sam continued to thrash and moan, sweating, his skin hot to the touch, the whole night long.  Only a few hours before dawn did he finally settle, falling into sleep, leaving Castiel to finally sink wearily into the chair before the fire and snatch some sleep of his own.

Castiel looked out the window, sighing.  He couldn't see much in the fog.  He cracked open the heavy, glazed window.  Below, in the courtyard, he could hear the faint sounds of a household coming to life. The cool gusts of wind from outside didn't feel much colder than the air inside Castiel's room.

"You're here."

Castiel turned.  The boy—Sam—was sitting up in bed, head propped against one of the pillows. His color looked better, ruddier, against the bleached linen.

"Sam!" Castiel hurried over to the bed.  He reached out a hand to stroke Sam's damp forehead, then thinking better of it, pulled it back, flustered.  In the night, frustrated and tired, it had been easy to pretend that the boy he was tending was another, more familiar and dear.  But there was no denying that the face Castiel was looking at was that of a stranger.

"Do you know me?" Sam asked, one sharp shoulder slipping from beneath the sheet.  They were broad for his skinny frame, suggesting that Sam might still have some growing to do.  Castiel could see the black fabric of his coat was still wrapped around the boy, swathing his lean arms.

"No.  My apologies.  My name is Castiel, I arrived last night."

"Michael's emissary," Sam murmured.

"Yes.  You were…ill.  Lord Winchester gave me leave to care for you."

"Lord Winchester?"

"Yes."

Sam looked at Castiel steadily.  Then he shrugged. "There's a first time for everything then.  I can't say Lord Winchester has been too preoccupied with my well-being of late."

Castiel flushed, not sure what to say. He didn't like Dean's callous treatment of Sam, but it seemed incredibly undiplomatic to bad-mouth his host the first morning of his assignment.

"Are you feeling better?  You were quite ill."

"I wasn't."

"You were writhing on the floor, feverish." Castiel flushed. "Naked."

"I've always run hot. And I wasn't ill. It was just the lack of the blood."

"Blood?"

"The cost of being a leech," Sam said nonchalantly. He took in Castiel's confused expression, then explained, "Blood magic.  It's addicting, and the effects of withdrawal are…unpleasant."

Skin crawling, Castiel couldn't help but draw back. Some old half-remembered lore came to his mind.  Mages using blood as a short-cut, a burst of power far beyond their own training and capabilities. Feeding on the abilities of others by consuming their bodily fluids. It was unheard of in Heaven, forbidden. An abomination.

"You're afraid of me now," Sam said, observing Castiel's retreat.  There was no change to the timbre of his voice, but his dark eyes suddenly looked more liquid.  Sadder.

"Blood magic is forbidden," Castiel said stiffly.  He felt the strange urge to pat Sam's hand in reassurance.  He was young; he might not have chosen that path himself.  If it had been chosen for him…

"Not much is forbidden in Hell," Sam said, reaching up with two long fingers to rub at his pink mouth. Castiel could see it now: a faint red stain at the corners of Sam's curled lips.  He shuddered. "And Lord Winchester will use whatever weapons he can muster to keep this territory."

"Did he force you to do it?" Castiel blurted.  He reached out and placed his hand over Sam's other hand.

"So lacking in caution," Sam replied, looking into Castiel's eyes. He sounded amused. "Are you sure you're a diplomat? Regardless, I serve House Winchester. And I like the power.  Withdrawal aside, it's a small price to pay for the abilities it gives me to defend this hall."

Castiel didn't know what to say to that.

Sitting up straighter, Sam seemed to notice Castiel's black coat for the first time.  He drew back the blankets and stroked at the coat's fabric.  Castiel had managed to pull it over Sam's head, and work his arms through the sleeves.  He hadn't buttoned the sleeves or the neck, however, not sure if Sam would vomit and the garment would need to be removed.  The sleeves flapped around Sam's elbows, and gaped around Sam's lean, brown chest.

"Is this your coat?" Sam asked quietly.

"You had no clothes," Castiel replied. "I needed…I wanted to help you."

"You covered me with your coat and spent the night nursing me?"

"Well, yes." Castiel was confused.  The way Sam said it, the weight he put behind the words, gave Castiel's actions more meaning that simple altruism.

"Then I am in your debt," Sam said. "In your service.  If it's amenable to you, I would serve my time as your guide in Hell, pay off my debt that way.  Do you agree?"

"Debt?  What debt?"

"Caring for me.  Clothing me.  These things cost."

"Not in Heaven," Castiel replied, then flushed. Never had he reached out to care for another, not since…not since his brother had been small.  There was no want in Heaven.  Everyone had their responsibilities, their duties, their place. 

"It's Hell's way," Sam answered, quirking an eyebrow at Castiel's confusion. "And I pay my debts."

"I don't want it," Castiel said.

Sam's face became carefully blank.  He reached up and stroked shyly at his neck, eyes steadily on Castiel. "There are other ways I could repay you.  With my body—"

"No!" Castiel blurted, horrified.

"No need to protest so," Sam said, dropping his hand, and Castiel got the impression that he had offended Sam with the rejection. "But I need to pay."

"You don't owe me anything."

"Perhaps you don't understand," Sam said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "I owe you a debt.  If you refuse it, it means you don't believe there is any way I can be of service to you.  That I am useless. Weak.  Is that really what you want everyone to know, to believe?"

Castiel opened his mouth, and then closed it.  He thought about Sam's words.  This was Hell, where strength and cruelty seemed to go hand in hand.  Winchester had won his territory by brutal force.  He seemed to have little regard for Sam.  Could Castiel's refusal make it worse, make him a target, like a deer among wolves?

And everyone had seen Castiel take on the care of Sam.  He had been impetuous, demanding, in sight of Dean and all his demons. Stepping on who knows what social taboos.

In Michael's name, what had Castiel gotten into?

"My service," Sam said, watching Castiel in his steady way. "You need a guide, badly.  That I can tell. I can be that guide. You should agree."

"Then I agree," Castiel acquiesced, watching Sam just as steadily. He was completely surprised when Sam smiled suddenly, dimples winking in his cheeks, and leaned forward to press his mouth warmly against Castiel's.

It was a brief kiss; nevertheless, Castiel felt his face flush with heat.  It was over before he could dart away, and he was left staring dumbly at Sam. He ran his tongue over his lower lip.  He could taste iron.

"What was that for?"

"To seal our agreement," Sam said, and he laughed lightly. "I think you need more help that you realize.  All bargains in Hell are made that way."

"With a kiss?"

"Usually," Sam said. "Am I so ugly that it was a hardship for you?"

"You know you aren't!" Castiel retorted, then blushed foolishly when he saw Sam's sly smile, feeling  both old and naive. "You were teasing."

"A babe in the woods," Sam mused. "Yes, deals in Hell are sealed with a kiss.  What do they do in Heaven?"

"It's just words," Castiel said hesitantly.  He had sworn an oath to Michael, when he had taken up his work in the Archives.  He had sworn before he had journeyed to Hell, down on his knees in obedience.  Then, a bit horrified, "Did Lord Winchester kiss Zachariah?!"

"If he made any agreement, he most certainly did," Sam said, laughing.  He gingerly eased back the covers and slowly put his feet to the floor, testing his body, like a man one day healed from serious illness.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting up," Sam said, standing.  He wobbled only a bit, heedless of his naked feet on the cold stone floor. Castiel's jacket flapped around Sam's bare calves, and although the boy straightened the lapels and the cuffs, he made no move to button them closed, leaving the cloth fluttering open around his elbows and chest.

"You should rest," Castiel insisted, standing as well.

"Rest is scarce in Hell," Sam replied, stretching. "And Lord Winchester begins his demanding days early.  You will need to go back down to the main hall to report for your duties."

"But—"

"Tending to me," Sam interrupted, "as soft-hearted as it may be, will not be part of your duties."

"He will think it was weakness?  My caring for you?"

Sam sighed.  He approached Castiel, and put a large hand tenderly on Castiel's cheek.  Castiel closed his eyes.  How long had it been since he had been touched?

"No one expects an angel to be made of iron," Sam said softly.

Castiel opened his eyes. "Our warriors are."

"But you're not a warrior, are you?" Sam asked.

"No," Castiel replied, softly.

Sam patted his cheek.  He was younger than Castiel, but Castiel kept getting the impression that Sam saw him as a child to be indulged.  Hell may be harsh, but Sam strangely was not.

"Then I leave you," Sam said. "I suggest you wash and dress and report downstairs as soon as possible.  I will meet you there.  You do know where to go?"

"Yes," Castiel said.  That at least, was a small mercy of Winchester Hall.  The floorplan seemed to be remarkably straightforward, what little he had seen of it.

"Then soon," Sam promised.  He slipped out the door quickly, and it was only a minute or two after he had left, when Castiel was rubbing his tired eyes, did Castiel remember he had forgotten to retrieve his formal coat from the boy.  Castiel had no replacement badge of his office.

The shabby sweaters he curled up in while in the bowels of the Archives would not do.  Castiel cursed quietly.

He would have to make his appearance before Lord Winchester in shirt sleeves.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The main room was brighter in the morning light.  Sunlight streamed in through the blasted wall—despite the mist of the morning—and illuminated the heavy wooden table and the stone mantle of the fireplace.  A fire roared in the hearth, but Castiel still shivered with cold. And with nerves.  He felt woefully exposed in only his white shirt, despite it being clean and pressed.  He had wiped the ash from his boots, washed in the water provided, ran a comb through his hair, although he knew even slicked with water, it gave an unruly appearance.

He had also taken the time to pray, to reflect.  It was something he did daily, usually in the mornings, before his work in the Archives had begun.  His sleep often troubled, half-remembered dreams making his head and chest ache, Castiel sought the peace of prayer.  He sorely needed it now in Hell.  Although he risked being late, Castiel had knelt for as long as he dared, trying to quiet his mind, his knees burning from the cold of the stones.  Trying to find grace and order.  But he still felt unsettled.

Dean was at the head of the table again, arms crossed before him.  He was clad in dark leather, the same as the night before, groomed beard still thick on his face, as if he'd never left his seat.  As if he didn't need to.  Castiel mentally shook himself.  Lord Winchester was a powerful mage, a demon, but just a man.  There was nothing otherworldly about him, despite the snapping fire in his green eyes.

At his shoulder, Sam stood, still clad in Castiel's coat.  Although he had advised Castiel to groom himself, Sam still looked bed-rumpled, his hair in his eyes, coat flapping around his body, which seemed bare beneath it.

Castiel came to a halt before the great table, much as he had the first night.  There was a pregnant pause, Lord Winchester staring at him intensely, fingers drumming lightly on the table top.  Then Castiel sketched a low bow, remembering his manners.

"Good morning, Lord Winchester," Castiel said.

"Dean," Lord Winchester corrected.  His gaze slid over Castiel's body, before he drawled, "Underdressed, aren't you, little angel?"

"Castiel," Castiel countered, temper running hot at the use of the pet name.  Then he said, more meekly, "I just have the one coat."

"Heaven, land of peace and plenty," Dean intoned, before snorting with derision.  Then he changed the subject. "You slept?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Liar."

"I dozed," Castiel amended, looking over at Sam.  The boy's face was impassive, but he shot Castiel a saucy wink.  It was tempting, Castiel thought, to look to Sam as an ally, but he realized he didn’t know much about the boy, other than that he served Lord Winchester, and was a leech, and hadn't been cruel to Castiel.  Still, they had no loyalty to each other, unless you counted the strange bargain Sam had sealed with a kiss.  The offer of guidance.

"You'll take your rest if you're not a fool," Dean said.  He raised one finger and beckoned Castiel over, pointing to the seat at his right.  Castiel slid cautiously into the spot.  Despite the size of the table, he was closer to Dean than he liked, his skin pricking uncomfortably.  In the daylight, Lord Winchester was even more devastatingly handsome, his smooth skin lightly dotted with tan freckles, a glint of red in his beard.  His nose was slightly crooked, but it only added to the charm.  Castiel met Dean's gaze, watched that golden brow quirk, and flushed slightly.

"You stare," Dean said.  Sam had remained standing at his shoulder.

"So do you," Castiel retorted without thinking, and was surprised when Dean barked out a sharp laugh.

"Well, at least you have some spine, little angel.  Are you hungry?"

"Yes, my lord," Castiel replied politely, then was confused when Dean rolled his eyes at the perfectly appropriate honorific.  Dean gestured to a demon---there were a few, hugging the wall, clad in black—and the demon scurried out of the room, returning quickly with two covered plates.

"I'll work you hard," Dean said as one plate was placed before him, the other before Castiel. "Long hours.  You should eat and rest when given leave to do so.  No one is pampered here."

"Angels are used to hard work, and discipline," Castiel argued, instantly irritated by the insinuation that he was somehow soft.  Lord, why was he arguing?  It seemed to come naturally, the verbal sparring, the minute he was in Lord Winchester's presence. He bit his lower lip in consternation.

The food smelled good, at least.  Castiel could catch the aroma drifting from beneath the edges of the covered dome.  This part, at least, Castiel thought he could do smoothly.  To sit and wait for grace, to let the most senior set the tone as to who would eat first, the use of table manners.  He was hungry—had been so since last night—but he was used to it.  Intense magic used fuel, and a mage often found himself with a deficit of food and rest, particularly when using the type of magic Castiel had used the night prior.

But this was Hell, Castiel remembered, and there would be no grace.  At Dean's nod the demon serving them removed the covers on the food.  Hard-boiled eggs, cured meats, cubed potatoes.  There was no cutlery on the table, and Castiel watched as Dean dug into the food immediately, neat fingers nipping in to pluck up an egg and bring it to his lush mouth.  He caught Castiel's eye and gave a small nod.

There was no napkin for Castiel to drape in his lap.  He picked up a cubed potato, boiled and cold to the touch.  Salt crumbled on his fingertips as he lifted it to his lips.  At that moment, he glanced up at Sam—was it the need for reassurance or curiosity; Castiel didn't know—and froze.

Sam was staring at the plate with a hungry expression.

"When does Sam eat?" Castiel asked abruptly.

Dean chewed leisurely, swallowing his mouthful, apparently not in any hurry to answer Castiel.  From the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Sam shake his head minutely, but Castiel pressed on stubbornly.

"He eats," Dean said, "when he has proven his worth.  Which is not today."

"He needs food!" Castiel exclaimed, horrified.  Would Lord Winchester really let the boy go hungry?

"He needs discipline," Dean countered. "My leech gets his food—and his blood—when he obeys me."

"He can have mine!"

"You're food or your blood?" Dean asked, smirking.

Castiel flushed at that, biting his lip.

Dean chuckled, before his face once again grew impassively cold. "No, he cannot."

"Is that why he was suffering last night?!" Castiel shouted.  All thoughts of the inappropriateness of blood magic had flown from his head.  He could see Sam suffering before the fire, writhing in pain. So young to suffer so. "Because you wouldn't give him blood? What even did he do?!"

"That is between him and me," Dean replied.  His voice—calm, measured—was driving Castiel's temper to a pitch. The louder Castiel got, the calmer Dean seemed to be.  It was infuriating.

"To starve a child—"

"He's not a child," Dean said, voice still calm, but sharper. "It is a mistake, little angel, to think of Sam as something small and innocent.  Trust me when I say he is as ruthless and as lethal as I am.  He's a feral animal, not a boy.  Which is why I demand his obedience."

"In Heaven—"

"You are not in Heaven," Dean shot back. "Now sit down."

He had been standing, Castiel realized.  Standing and shouting at his host, in full view of the demons in the room.  He glanced at Sam.  The boy looked stricken.  Would Dean punish him later, just because Castiel had championed him? Was he making Sam look weak?

"I'm sorry," Castiel muttered, sitting back down.  He stared at the food on his plate.  With the lump in his throat, he knew he would not be able to stomach it.

"Eat," Dean said, face placid, and tucked a bit of potato into his cheek.

"It's just," Castiel started, then bit his lip.  He had meant to be silent, but he couldn't help himself. "When will you let him eat?"

"It's a bad idea," Dean said idly, "to show your enemies exactly what you care about, and how you can be hurt."

"Is that what we are, Lord Winchester?" Castiel asked softly. "Are we enemies?"

Dean tilted back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, not answering.  Finally he leaned forward and said, "Will you bargain for him?"

"A deal?" Castiel asked. He couldn't help but dart a glance at the silken pink of Dean's mouth. Dean's lip quirked.

"I see Sam has already schooled you on our ways."

"Not really," Castiel admitted.  He still didn't fully understand.

"It's simple," Dean said.  His eyes were intent on Castiel's own. "Nothing in Hell is free. The food I offer you at my table comes from my agreement with Michael, to feed and house you, as if you were…my very own.  In short, it belongs to me not to you.  If you want to give it to Sam, I will want something in return."

"What is it?"

"I will feed Sam, and I will feed you as well, provided you kneel at my side for your food." Dean's eyes were bright, color in his cheeks.  He looked eager.  "You will eat from my hand, and no other way."

"Why would you want that?" Castiel asked.

Dean laughed. "Little innocent! I like power.  I like the idea of wielding power over you."

"If you think I'm ashamed to kneel," Castiel said sharply, "you have no understanding of Heaven's ways."  His fist curled on the tabletop.  His palm itched, and he wished there was a knife he could wield, slashing at Dean's smug face.

"Angels kneel in obedience," Dean agreed.

"You want to humiliate me."

"Perhaps I want your humility," Dean countered.

"I don't see why—"

"I want you to kneel," Dean said slowly, "and take food from my hand.  _Only my hand_." At this he glanced sharply at Sam.

"And if I do this, Sam will eat?"

"He may have your plate," Dean said generously.

"Then I agree," Castiel said.

"Very well," Dean said, dusting his hands. "Come here and kiss me."

Slowly, Castiel stood. Almost immediately, Sam slipped into Castiel's seat and began to tuck into the food, eating with big, hungry bites.  He didn’t look at Castiel and Castiel felt in some not small way betrayed, as if Sam should have demurred, or argued with Dean, or done _something_.  As if he should have stood up for Castiel.  He hadn't, and Castiel reminded himself that Sam was a stranger, and that they really owed each other nothing, especially in this brutal realm.

Dean looked at Castiel expectantly as he approached, and Castiel leaned in, bending at the waist, and presented his mouth as formally as he could muster.  With all the innuendoes Dean has been murmuring, Castiel had in some way expected a forceful kiss, as harsh as Lord Winchester himself.  But instead, it was a kiss very much like Sam's: a soft, brief press of lips.

"Now kneel," Dean said.

"I'm not hungry," Castiel replied quietly, raising a hand to his tingling mouth.  It was foolish defiance, he knew, but stubbornly he couldn’t help himself.  He didn't want Dean to win. His stomach gave a traitorous growl.

Dean smiled.  It wasn't a nice smile.  He gestured to his own plate. "Take an egg."

Hesitantly, Castiel reached out.  But as he went to grasp the egg the strangest thing happened.  His fingertips could not make contact with the food.  It was as if his eyes couldn't focus.  He tried several more times, each time grabbing only air.

"A deal is binding in Hell," Dean said, looking up at Castiel's shocked face. "Dark magic is writ into the very soil of this place. You agreed: no food except from my hand, at my side, on your knees." He took one look at Castiel's mutinous face, and barked that same short burst of laughter. "Go stand by the wall if you're going to be stubborn about it.  You're face isn't as pleasing when you're being pettish.  You'll change your mind soon enough."

"The Hell I will," Castiel hissed, temper flaring.  But he moved away from the table, and the tempting food he now, through Hell's magic, could no longer eat.

"The Hell you will," Dean agreed, smiling his faint smile.  He popped a slice of meat into his mouth. "You'll come around.  After breakfast I'll have Sam see you to your duties.  I hope for the sake of the  library, you'll come to your senses sooner rather than later."

 


	4. Chapter 4

"You're a terrible choice for an ambassador," Sam said solemnly.

"I know that," Castiel answered sharply, then bit his lip.  Truth be told, it was beginning to feel a bit raw.  He had no excuse for yelling at the boy, only hunger and fatigue making his words harsh.  Also, the shame curdling in his gut.  He had been easily manipulated, his temper and compassion serving as dual blades to carve him down, manipulate him.  He was failing, failing at being the unflappable, mild-mannered angel Michael had charged with this important task.  His lack of control was casting a pall on the honor of Heaven.

Castiel would have liked to excuse his behavior, to blame this strange place with its strange ways. But he was prickly—prickish, his colleague Anna had once said, only half-joking.  He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been easy to provoke, both emotional and snappish.  Perhaps that was why he had been chosen to work in the Archives.  Deep in the bowels of the library, lost amongst books, Castiel had had little opportunity to lash out.

At least in Winchester Hall, the library was not below ground.  After breakfast, Sam had led Castiel up a spiral staircase, his bare feet soundless on the stone steps.  Here and there were more scorched and blasted walls, in a few places the stairs perilously open to the air, as if battle had raged into the upper reaches of the hall, with mages blasting each other in a calf-burning chase up the stairs.

Castiel had seen with suppressed horror that the library had not been spared.  It had been a nice room once—the ceiling vaulted and airy instead of claustrophobically low like most of the lower levels of the Archives. The heavy wooden shelves of books had been tumbled down, and a leak in the roof—repaired now, Castiel could see—had left many of the tomes waterlogged, if they were not scorched and blackened.  Little remained of the frescos that had once decorated the walls. A shame.

"You should be cleverer," Sam continued, now leading Castiel into the room.  The door had opened with a single whispered word from Sam, unlocking to swing open and reveal the mess of battered books.  Sam led Castiel to the large table in the center of the room.  There was a pile of books as high as the table sitting on the floor beside it.

"I'm not clever," Castiel replied, rubbing anxiously at his chin.  There were angels known for their persuasiveness—Gabriel, who once famously sat at Michael's side, was particularly known for his skill at negotiation.  Most angels, however, were straightforward in both thoughts and actions.  Overly honest, to the point of bluntness.  Castiel worked harder than most to curb that part of himself.  He knew even the other angels considered him brusque.

"Clever enough. I saw the spell you cast last night," Sam replied. He pointed to the book at the top of the stack and Castiel leaned forward to inspect it, intrigued.  This one looked flawless. "You're good at unraveling puzzles.  You should look at life here at Winchester Hall the same way.  As one big puzzle."

"And blast it with an offensive spell?" Castiel countered dryly.  He hovered his hand over the book.  There.  A nasty, nasty spell, bound into the pages, just waiting to rebound on the first one who touched it.  He pressed in gently with his magic, and coaxed it to dissipate, breaking it with more skill and less force than he had the night prior.

"See? Cleverly done," Sam said and Castiel warmed at the praise despite his grumpy demeanor. "And I said you were clever. Not necessarily subtle."

"I'll not have to worry much about being clever if Lord Winchester keeps me sequestered up here.  I'm sure a diplomat should be doing…something else."

"Never had one stay long enough to know," Sam answered cheerfully, lifting the book Castiel had healed and putting it on a shelf. "Dean sends them home within the first day, usually.  So you're doing something right."

"Or something wrong," Castiel muttered.  He reached for the next book.  It seemed safe enough to touch, but there was something…twisted in the curled and blackened pages.  He hesitated, being cautious.

"Most of these books were cursed before they were damaged," Sam said and Castiel tilted his head at that statement. "To protect them.  The old Master didn't want anyone to have access to them."

"Old Master?"

"Azazel." Sam made a face at the name, a tremor in his voice. "This was his castle, once upon a time.  Before the demon uprisings."

"Azazel is an Angelic name," Castiel said, confused.

"He was an angel," Sam confirmed.  He smiled indulgently at Castiel's shock, cheeks dimpling. "You didn’t know?  Are all the history books in Heaven revised editions, purged of truth? The lords of Hell originally came from Heaven."

"They wouldn't…couldn't…Michael wouldn't allow it…"

Sam walked over to one of the less damaged shelves and extracted a book that looked fairly unmarked.  He set it down on the table. "You'll need to rest in between the more demanding books.  Try reading this. A history of Hell.  Of the winged immortal lords that kept and bred demons like cattle." Sam's face grew stony. "And how those enslaved demons overthrew them."

"Lord Winchester," Castiel said.  He reached out and ran a finger over the history book, his mind reeling.  Angels keeping slaves.  Angels living outside the bounds of Heaven, trafficking in dark magic?

"Among others," Sam said. He placed a hand gently on Castiel's shoulder. "Maybe this book will help you stay out of impossible situations.  Like taking your meals on your knees."

Castiel flushed.  Sam was looking at him, face both exasperated and sympathetic.  Castiel felt suddenly betrayed. Had Sam helped maneuver Castiel into such an embarrassing fiasco? No, Castiel only had himself to blame.

"Aren't you worried you'll die of hunger?"

"Will I?" Castiel asked. "If Lord Winchester dies and there is no one to feed me, will I die?"

"Probably a poor idea, imagining Dean's death—"

"In vivid detail," Castiel interrupted testily.

Sam chuckled. "If one or both of the parties of an agreement die, the contract is void.  You won't starve…unless you continue to be stubborn."

"I don’t regret giving you my food," Castiel insisted.

"I suppose I should insist that I don't need looking after," mused Sam, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes.  He smiled. "But it's completely to my advantage to have you 'mother hen' me.  Just be cautious, Castiel.  I wouldn't recommend making a habit of going around taking demon deals.  Especially not from any demon other than Dean."

"Other than Lord Winchester?  Other demons would probably be safer."

Sam sighed. "Call him Dean."

"You don’t want me to be proper with him?  Do you hate him that much?"

"Cas, Cas," Sam said affectionately.  He leaned over and put his chin on Castiel's shoulder, resting so that they were nearly cheek to cheek. "I've never had such a loyal champion."

Even Sam's minor touch warmed something deep inside Castiel. "It's not loyalty—"

"Who are you really fighting for?" Sam asked.

Castiel changed the subject doggedly. The closeness of Sam, the heat emanating from him, was making Castiel feel almost dizzy. "Why should I call him Dean?  Why the lack of formality?"

"Only slaves have surnames," Sam said quietly.  He slid away from Castiel, rounded the table. "We're not ashamed of them. Winchester was a well-respected line.  Hardy stock.  But a Lord of Hell only has one name. All angels do.  Most of the demon territory lords have adopted this habit as well. When you say 'Winchester,' you remind Dean of his servitude."

"An insult," Castiel said slowly, realizing.  He mentally cursed Zachariah for this lack of information.  Zachariah had used the name and Castiel hadn't even waited for Dean to introduce himself before he was running roughshod over the situation.

"You needn't worry about it so desperately," Sam soothed, taking in Castiel's stricken face. "It is the name of the man who rules here.  But Dean will be pleased if you use his first name.  And I can't stress enough the importance of keeping Dean pleased."

"An impossible task," Castiel grumbled.

"Don’t fight so hard," Sam coaxed.  Then he chuckled. "Like asking water not to be wet, I know. Anyway, I must be off.  I'll check on you at lunch time."

"Can you bring me food?' Castiel asked quietly.  He hadn't wanted to appear weak.  But magic work on an empty stomach would drain him even further. Hunger was painful.  Especially when it was protracted, stretched over days and days, not break in sight. Castiel frowned at that sudden, unwelcome thought.

"From his hand only.  You agreed.  Both of you so stubborn. Tsk, only one of you can win." Sam strode toward the door, borrowed coat flapping around lean, brown calves.

"Sam?"

"Hm?"

"What did I trade away? When I…when you kissed me?"

"Think I tricked you?"

"I'm just wondering what the next egg will be that slips through my fingers."

"No eggs," Sam soothed. "I'm sworn to guide you.  When I speak to do so, it will be the truth."

"So says you," Castiel muttered, but his voice was gentle.

"So says Hell," Sam corrected.  Then he was slipping out the door, leaving Castiel to his work.

It was arduous work, much more demanding that Castiel's normal spellwork down in the Archives.  Restoration spells were more about art than power, coaxing faded ink and crumbling paper back to life.  In Winchester Hall, surrounded by cursed books, the work Castiel did was more like feeling his way through a brutally difficult maze, sprung with deadly traps.  After having one of his hands scalded by a particularly wicked curse, Castiel paused for a while, breathing hard.  His head and stomach ached but he felt strangely exhilarated.  It was a battle, a war; the killing fields the size of a table, and all the weapons in Castiel's mind.  To rest, he read the slim book that was apparently an abridged history of Hell, absorbed completely in accounts he'd never heard of before, information that no library in Heaven had.  At least none he was privy to.  It disturbed him, to know that angels had come to Hell and conquered it, had created something very different than Heaven, the model they should have aspired to. That they had embraced dark magic, forbidden spells. 

The names were unfamiliar to Castiel. Azazel. Gadreel.  A score of other angels, all defying Michael's will, the restrictions of Heaven, setting off instead to reign in Hell, and somehow by settling in Hell gaining an immortal lifespan. _Fallen_.  The idea that they had turned from Michael, his light and order, twisted Castiel's stomach.  By the book's account Hell had been a wilder, freer place, savage but somehow honest, ruled by small demon fiefdoms.  The demons had been thrown down, into servitude, the angels rising up as masters, carving out their own kingdoms.  Demons, all enslaved, then carefully bred to select and control darker magical abilities.  People, reduced to cattle, to pets.

It made Castiel sick to think of it.

To take a break from taking a break he walked the length of the room and squinted at the damaged frescos.  He couldn't make out anything in what was left of the vibrant color, but the magic to repair them might not be so different from the magic needed to enhance the faded illustrations in an old book.  He might be able to do it, if allowed.

A demon came at midday and brought him a pitcher of water and only hours after the demon left did Castiel remember Sam's promise.  But the boy didn't materialize and Castiel supposed he had been caught up in whatever mysterious way he might serve Lord Winchester. If Castiel had been bored or afraid, perhaps he would have been upset to be left alone.  But he was too obsessed, nearly addicted to the thrill of it; each book laid before him a gauntlet thrown down in challenge.  He sipped at the water left to him, testing. Castiel discovered that he could drink, and did so copiously, packing his gut with water in an attempt to mute the gnawing sensation of hunger.  It worked a bit, but Castiel despised the ashy taste of the water, that same volcanic tang that seemed to taint the air. It tasted like Hell itself, and seemed to make his mouth feel even drier.  After a while, his stomach began to ache with more than hunger and he left off the water entirely, disgusted with it.

The books beckoned, and Castiel drew up his mental sword and shield and went to war.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, Cas…"

"I'm fine," Castiel said stubbornly, ignoring the troubled expression on Sam's face.  The book in front of him was almost perfect.  He let out a gentle puff of magic to straighten the pages, but overtaxed as he was, his spell lurched out like a wheeze. Still, the spell held.  The book was whole and mended.

"You're half dead," Sam reproved gently.  He took the finished book and placed it on the shelf next to the others.  Not as many as Castiel would have liked to have finished, but a fair amount.  He wasn't ashamed of the work he had done.

"I'm feeling my age," Castiel muttered.

"And what age is that?" Sam asked playfully.

Exhausted was what Castiel was.  The cold of the room had kept him awake and on task.  It had done little to soothe the ache in his belly, or the feeling of his magic trying to consume him, desperate for fuel.

Castiel stepped back from the table, and there were hands on his shoulders, gentle, supportive.  He had stumbled maybe, knees buckling, and Sam was there.  Sam, supporting him, when all he wanted to do was topple to the floor and cry with weariness.  His left shoulder was screaming with pain, and his eyes ached with strain.

"It's supper time," Sam said. He familiarly tucked his sharp chin on Castiel's shoulder again. "You're going to be stubborn, aren't you? Please don't."

Castiel frowned.  Anything he might say in his own defense sounded petty and childish, even when rehearsed for his own ears in the hours prior to Sam's arrival.  He bit his lip instead.

"I thought angels were obedient.  How hard is it to kneel?"

"Obedient with purpose," Castiel argued back.

"The 'purpose' is your growling stomach.  Is your plan to collapse with starvation at his feet?"

"No one can starve in a day," Castiel said stubbornly.  Someone could, however, if they were pushing magic through their body so fast it was consuming all their energy reserves.

"You need to understand," Sam said, and Castiel raised his head at Sam's serious tone, the warm puff of his breath close to Castiel's ear, "in Hell there is no defiance.  Dean can't afford it, not from his demons.  Not from anyone.  In Hell there is the Master and then the ones that submit.  Like a pack of hellhounds, with only one leader, the rest nipped into submission.  One sign of weakness, of softness, and the pack might be biting and scratching at each other, vying for top position."

"I don't know much about hellhounds."

"You don't know much about Hell, either," Sam said sharply and Castiel winced a bit at this new tone, not gentle, as harsh as Sam had ever been with him. "How do you expect to ease the relations between Heaven and Hell if you refuse to learn our ways? You've been defiant at every opportunity!"

"I know!" Castiel muttered, ashamed. As much as it hurt to do, he shrugged away from Sam's touch, turning to face him.

"Why?"

"I don't know! I'm uncomfortable, I suppose!" That strange crackle of…something…between Dean and himself.  Some shiver of knowing, not fully realized.  What was it about the man that had Castiel's back up?

"What did you expect?" Sam asked. "This isn't your world.  You have to adjust."

Castiel grunted, both angry and ashamed.  Why couldn't he get himself under control?

"Please eat."

"Why do you care?" Castiel asked suspiciously, then immediately felt guilty when he saw Sam's face, the damp shine of those expressive eyes, glinting at him from beneath thin, furrowed brows.

"Do you think hellhounds love?" Sam asked softly. "Do you think the elders coddle the young?"

"Sam—"

"Do you think anyone else would have done for me what you did?"

"I—"

"Maybe you're the only one who's not biting and clawing for status." He stepped away then, as if he had said too much, and headed for the door. "It will open for you.  It's spelled for your voice as well as mine."  He walked out the door, not looking back. "You know where to go for dinner, Castiel."

Perhaps it was the mention of hellhounds that had Castiel feeling like he was slinking into the room like a dog with his tail between his legs.  The room was once again lit with a roaring fire, but again it seemed to do nothing to break through the ever present cold of the castle.  Dean sat in his chair and Sam stood in his place. The food was already on the table, waiting before the seat Castiel had taken that morning.  Like a stage being set for a play. Dean looked up on Castiel's entrance, then raised one eyebrow expectantly.  It would be easy enough for Castiel to slide into his place on the floor, without comment.

Castiel walked straight past without stopping and took his place standing against the wall.

Sam sighed loudly.

"Well, then," Dean said, sounding amused.  A nod at Sam had the boy scrambling for a seat at the table and digging into his food. "I'd offer you a seat, but our deal won't allow for it.  Difficult to make conversation with you all the way over there, but we'll make do."

"I have nothing to say," Castiel said stiffly.  He leaned against the wall, the stone burning cold through the thin material of his shirt.  He didn't adjust and step away, needing the support the bolster up his tired body.  At least he was far enough away that he couldn't smell whatever food Winchester Hall was serving that evening.

"Tell me about your day, dear," Dean said sardonically.

Castiel hesitated, a retort on his lips.  He thought about what Sam had said, about the hierarchy of power in Hell.  Heaven had a hierarchy as well, one in which Castiel knew his place.  It had never bothered him before, to be a subordinate.  Surely he could manage now.

"I repaired many books…Dean.  Not as many as I'd hoped but," Castiel faltered, "it will take time.  The room could use some repairs as well."

"Do you have any skill with masonry, little angel?"

"No," Castiel said sharply, annoyed at the pet name.  Was it too much to hope for some mutuality, now that Castiel knew the correct way to address Lord Winchester?

"Pity.  I can't spare you any demons to fix the room further.  They're out repairing roads and walls and bridges, shoring up our territory's defenses.  Not much use for a flawless library when the Hall is set ablaze by raiders."

"Do you think my request frivolous?" Castiel asked testily. "Surely repairing old books is an equally useless venture?"

"Old books filled with powerful spells," Dean replied. "Battle magicks, long forbidden to demons.  The kind of spells that can make the difference between victory and defeat.  Did…did you really repair the books and not look inside to see what you were fixing?"

Castiel ignored the snide question.  Truthfully, he hadn't thought to look at the books he was fixing.  If what Lord Winchester said was true, he was adding to Dean's arsenal.  Was he adding to the ways that Dean might one day challenge Michael? Instead, he gave voice to another troubling concern.

"Are we in danger here?" Castiel asked.

Dean laughed.  Around the room, there were echoes of laughter.  Castiel turned his head and caught sight of the demon nearest him smothering a grin behind a closed fist.

"Always," Dean said.

"I meant," Castiel persisted, feeling foolish, "more so than the usual…is…are you presently at war?"

More laughter.  Dean turned his head and smiled at Castiel.  He had very even, white teeth, the canines looking wolfish in the firelight. "Little angel, how naïve you sound.  Every territory in Hell is always at war, even when playing at peace, at a treaty. But you needn't worry your head about that.  The beauty of always being at war means you're never taken by surprise when the fighting starts.  The fighting never stops, you see."

The words seemed helpful, but the tone was not.  Like Castiel was a brainless overgrown child, not understanding how the world worked.  The fact that Castiel was indeed ignorant just made it worse.

"May I have your leave?" Castiel asked coolly.  It was not as polite as it should have been, but Castiel was tired of shoring up both his body and his mind, and feeling hopelessly outmatched.

"Go rest, little angel," Dean said, tone suddenly gentler. "You had a long day, and as I'm beginning to know you better, I'm willing to bet that tomorrow will be even longer for you."

 


	6. Chapter 6

There was a draught among Castiel's things, meant to be used for sleeping.  Angels usually had little use for such thing; Heaven being about balance, few of his kind needed a sleep aid.  Castiel was unusual in that, he knew, and had always dismissed his insomnia, his restlessness, to spending so much of his time indoors and underground in the Archives.  He was exhausted enough, bone weary, that it was unnecessary, but hunger was gnawing at his gut.  A side effect to the potion was the numbing of hunger, of bodily discomfort.  Castiel sipped a measure, crouched before the fire in his icy room.

He dreaded sleep, even though he knew it could be an escape.  With sleep came dreams, disturbing images that frightened Castiel into wakefulness. And besides, tomorrow would bring struggle with Dean, and Castiel refusing again to eat, until he collapsed, or worse.  More failure, as Castiel was somehow unable to bend enough to be the emissary Michael needed him to be. He delayed as long as he could, praying on the cold floor, knees burning, his heart in turmoil.  Eventually, he gave up on peace—elusive, out of his reach—and the draught softened his bones, sending him melting towards the stone floor.

Preparing for bed was another discomfort.  The water brought by the demon servant was still warm, but stripping down to bathe sent gooseflesh rippling along his bared skin.  He donned the long nightshirt he wore to bed and slipped between the cold sheets.  Castiel lay there for a long time, shivering, before he finally fell into a fitful doze.

_It was the dream again. Castiel in the sky, soaring, although he had never in his life unfurled his wings.  The sky was grey and acrid with the stink of smoke, ringing with the screams of the dying.  There was another angel flying at his shoulder, so close Castiel could smell his blood.  He tilted his head to look, took in those blue eyes, glazed with pain.  He reached out, his own hand stained with blood, but the angel at his side suddenly dropped from the sky like a stone. Castiel felt himself begin to fall…_

"Easy, Cas," said a soft voice.  Castiel blinked, coming awake, muzzy from the dream and the draught.  The bed dipped and then a warm body slid between the sheets beside him, tucking up behind him.  A body that brought delicious heat.

"Samandriel," Castiel murmured, turning to take his little brother in his arms.  But the body next to him was much too large to be a fledgling angel, not even half grown.

"Sam," said Sam.  He was easy to hold, and feeling weak and sleepy, the body is his arms not struggling away, Castiel lay still, his arms still wrapped around the demon. It would be prudent, some far away part of Castiel's mind whispered, to push Sam away.  This was not his brother, and Castiel was no longer a child. But he hadn't been able to do it yet, the boy's touch a balm to some part of Castiel that had always felt blackened and dead.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked softly.

"You were having a nightmare," Sam said, settling into Castiel's embrace. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Falling."

"You're not.  You're safe," Sam said and Castiel snorted sleepily. "I mean it, Cas.  Lord Winchester won't let anything harm you."

They lay quietly for a moment.  Castiel did feel safe.  Some part of his heart was aching from the dream, but with Sam he felt comforted.

"Who is Samandriel?" Sam asked after a while.

"My little brother," Castiel murmured. "I always dream he's dying.  Falling from the sky.  It's ridiculous really.  I dream him full-grown, a warrior.  But he was only a little boy."

"He died."

"He fell. From a window." Castiel frowned. "I don't remember why."

"You saw it?"

"No. They told me.  Siblings…they aren't usually fostered together.  But there was a mistake, and they put us in the same nursery, for a while. We could tell each other by scent, you see.  It was our secret for months.  But then they realized their mistake and separated us.  And then…he died."

"So horrible, to be separated from your family like that. You weren't raised by your parents?"

"No loyalty before loyalty to Michael," Castiel whispered, the words bitter in this throat.  If he had been there, if he could have saved Samandriel…

"Poor little angel," Sam said and Castiel wasn't sure who the boy was speaking of.  He was feeling sad, but warm, comforted.  He felt himself slipping back into sleep.

"Why do you call me 'Cas'?" Castiel asked drowsily.

"You don’t like nicknames?"

"Nothing is done here without intent," Castiel said and he felt Sam stiffen beside him.  There was something there…he yawned, mind useless at this early hour.

"I'll tell you some day.  Do you mind?"

"No," Castiel said, gathering Sam close.  He tumbled back down into sleep, his mind and body finally quiet.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Working as a librarian, Castiel had read his fair share of romance novels.  There were times when he was waiting for his next assignment, the next old book to be mended, and reading passed the time.  Often, illicit angel lovers, mated to others, slipped in through a bedroom window to make love while the moon rose high.  In those books, one of the guilty parties always disappeared before the sun rose, like a dream fading away from the mind once conscious thought returned.

So when Castiel awoke and found Sam's smiling face kissing close, he felt a bit betrayed.  Sam should have faded away like mist in the morning, not lingered to make things awkward. Castiel frowned, remembering how intimate their conversation, their embrace, had been last night.

And what was Castiel doing, thinking of the boy as if he was Castiel's lover, instead of the surrogate brother who had comforted Castiel in the painful middle of the night?

"You are well?" Sam asked, once Castiel's blinked a few times to clear his blurry sight.  There was enough space between them that Castiel could perhaps deny that he had fallen back to sleep with Sam in his arms.  Sam's bright eyes were knowing, though, damp with understanding, and Castiel sighed.  He gave up on the idea of denying anything.

"I'm not a child, Sam."

"No, you're not," Sam said, heat in his voice, but before Castiel could do much more than raise a disapproving eyebrow, the boy rolled away and bounded out of bed.  The borrowed coat flapped about his lean body as he stretched, and Castiel finally remembered the thing that he had forgotten, again and again, the day prior.

"Sam, may I have my coat back?"

"My coat," Sam said absently.

"Your coat?"

"You gave it to me," Sam replied, voice far too innocent.

"I—I what?"

"You gave it to me.  It's mine now."

The strangely stubborn tone in Sam's voice made Castiel laugh out loud. A childish gesture from a boy who seemed far too mature for his age. But Sam turned to face him, strong jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek jumping.  He looked more serious than Castiel had yet to see him.

"Sam," Castiel said gently, "I need my coat.  It's…it's meant to be worn for official business." He pointed to the subtle dark blue piping on the shoulders of the coat. "There's my badge of office and…Sam, really, I didn't mean to give it to you."

"No," Sam said stubbornly.  He finally sounded as young as he looked.

"Sam—"

"No!" With that Sam flounced out of the room, door slamming shut behind him.  Castiel blinked.

Well then.

Getting up and dressing seemed to take much more effort that they usually did.  Castiel felt hollowed out, scraped empty.  He stumbled, heading for the basin of water sitting steaming near the fireplace, and caught himself on the mantle, hissing.  He looked at his hand.  Raw and red.  He'd forgotten it had been spell-burned the day before, and today it looked worse.  He went back to his trunk and rummaged around.  There!  A pair of black, silk gloves, used mainly in delicate restoration work; turning thin, aged pages with care.  They would do to cover the burn.

In the main hall, Dean was not in his usual chair, as steady as a suit of armor.  Instead he stood before the fire, arms folded across his chest. Sam stood next to him, their heads bent together.  Sam was whispering and Dean nodding at short intervals.  Castiel paused, his body braced against the stones of the doorway, and watched them.  Dean's brow was furrowed, his green eyes narrowed.  One hand came up to grip Sam's shoulder, to knead there, and Castiel felt a surprising flash of possession and jealousy.  His stomach swooped further when he realized he couldn't identify who it was directed at.  He opened his mouth to speak.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Castiel cut his gaze to the left.  Along the wall, a creeping, blurred shape, was moving cautiously towards him.  Stalking him.  It almost looked like a ripple of heat, or mist, slinking along the stones.  A hellhound.  A hellhound in the keep. A hellhound coming at him with focused intent.

"Bela!" Sam said sharply.  The skulking blur paused, then backed away, heading over to Sam. The sight shield fell away and Castiel was looking at an enormous dog, the color of oily smoke, short fur and neat tail and ears. Castiel straightened, sweat trickling down his spine and put his hands down.  He had been readying himself as if to fight, to defend against that huge beast.

"She comes to you?" Castiel asked weakly.

"When it pleases her," Sam said.  He reached down to stroke the dog's slick head.  She sank to her haunches, mouth opening to show a panting, black tongue.  And teeth blazing white, as sharp as needles.

"You were startled," Dean said, approaching.  The leather of his coat was buckled up to his golden throat.  He stopped inches from Castiel, and examined him critically.

"I was terrified," Castiel admitted, swallowing hard.  He had never stood this close to Dean before, and he kept eye contact through pure force of will.  Dean's eyes were spring green this close, heavily lashed, the hairs tipped golden.  Castiel thought for a moment Dean might reach out and touch him, but Dean merely raked him with his gaze.

"You look like death warmed over," Dean observed.  He walked a short circle around Castiel. "Pretty blue eyes and they're dulled so with hunger.  Will you eat?"

Castiel blinked up at Dean.  The hellhound was still with Sam over by the fire, sitting motionless.  Castiel's eyes watered with the effort to keep from darting a glance at the dog.

Dean laughed. "Don't worry so about Bela.  She belongs to Lord Winchester. Only rips limb from limb the men that she is set upon."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"No, I suppose it wouldn't.  Will you eat?"

Castiel stepped away from Dean. Keeping his eye on both Lord Winchester and the hellhound, he took his familiar place against the wall.

Dean smiled faintly, the moved to take his own seat at the table.

Sam whistled.  Startled, Castiel watched as a section of the wall near the fireplace shimmered and another hellhound became visible.  This one was even larger than Bela, powerfully built, the same dark ash and smoke color.

"Victor," Dean supplied.  He was watching Castiel, still mildly amused.

"He's huge," Castiel said, swallowing hard.

"Yes.  And don't be upset you didn't know he was there.  It's impressive enough you noticed Bela.  Of course, she's the more impulsive of the pair, being the alpha.  Viktor's methodical, ruthless and patient.  The perfect second-in-command. Sam, sit down."

Sam sat at his place at the table, the two hounds beside him.  This put them closer to Castiel than he would have liked.  He could smell an odor coming off their fur, something sharp and acrid.  It turned his stomach.

At Lord Winchester's nod, Sam took the cover off his plate. Castiel couldn't help but watch, stomach aching.  Meat and cheese and bread, all cubed small in a way that Castiel was beginning to understand was particular to Lord Winchester's table, made for eating with hands only.  Castiel watched Sam pick up a piece of meat, mouth salivating.  Sam looked up, looked right into Castiel's eyes, his own gaze hard.  Then he dropped the piece of meat into Bela's waiting mouth.

"Sam!" Castiel hissed.

"I'll feed it to the hellhounds," Sam said calmly, dropping a piece of bread for Victor.  "Every bite goes to them, until you eat.  If you starve, I starve."

"Why would you do such a stupid thing?" Castiel shouted.

There was a ripple of unease from the demons ringing the room.  Dean sat up straighter, his gaze sharp.  Sam was still staring at Castiel, mouth tight, that familiar tick in his jaw. Furious.

"Only one of us is being stupid, Cas," Sam said.

"I'd like to think an angel has more sense than a leech, and yet I'm proven wrong. You gave you food away to Sam, but you didn’t make a deal that he had to be the one to eat it," Dean said, cruel amusement in his voice. "Will you surrender yet?"

"I can't!" Castiel said, feeling panicked.

Sam looked at Castiel steadily. "You can."

"I can't!" Castiel repeated, eyes darting around wildly.  Why he felt so uneasy, he couldn't explain.  The idea of Dean, looming over him… 

He finally settled on a truth: the hellhounds watching him, their gaze as steady and intense as Sam and Dean's. "I can't get down on the floor with them here!"

He expected laughter, or cruel taunts. Instead, Sam whistled low, and the two hellhounds bounded out of the room, tails whipping the air as they darted away.  Castiel watched them leave, staring, chest tight.  If he just kept watching…

"I understand," Sam said softly and he was right there, inches from Castiel.  He reached out and took Castiel's hand. "You need help."

"I…"

"It was the same for me, the first time," Sam continued, tugging Castiel gently to his place at Dean's side.  He stepped behind the angel, turned him until he faced forward, hands soft of Castiel's shoulders.  Slight pressure had Castiel going to his knees.  The floor was fiercely cold.  Sam went down with him, on his knees behind Castiel.  He tugged slightly, until Castiel was resting against the warmth of him, back to chest, his head propped against Sam's shoulder.

"Is this acceptable?" Castiel heard Sam ask.  His ears were ringing.  His vision, tunneled down.

"This one time," Dean replied, voice cold. "You have too much from him as it is."

"And yet not enough."

A warm hand at Castiel's throat gently tilted back his head.  He was looking up dazedly at Dean, Dean seemingly a giant, so far above them he sat.  He reached out, something in his hand, directed at Castiel's face, and Castiel flinched.

"Easy," Sam murmured and Castiel blinked, eyes bringing things into focus.

There was a piece of bread dangling from Dean's fingers, and then it was pressed against Castiel's lips, bread still hot and soft from the oven.  He opened his mouth and let Dean push his fingers inside.  Closed his lips around them, taking the bread from Dean's hand.  No need to chew.  The piece was soft enough and small enough to swallow whole.

Something in Castiel's chest untwisted as he swallowed the piece of bread.  What Dean had said.  _Surrender._

"There," Dean said.  A tender hand carded through Castiel's hair.  Whose hand it was, he couldn't say.  Dean's hand was back, this time with a piece of cheese.  The same routine: Dean's fingers sliding along Castiel's tongue, depositing the bit of food like a tiny offering.  Accept, swallow.  Castiel felt incredibly drowsy, his eyes heavy.

"Drugged," he muttered.

"No, Cas," Sam murmured in his ear.  The boy's arms were bands around his chest, holding him up. "No drugs.  You're starved and exhausted and finally, finally letting go.  Just eat, Cas.  Eat."

"I hate you," Castiel muttered, the words met with low laughter.  He wasn't sure who he hated, or who had laughed.  More food pressed into his mouth, and then a sip from a cup of wine, the taste cool and sweet and blissfully free of ashy flavor.  He let go, closed his eyes, and let Dean feed him.

"This isn't fair. I want it like this always." Sam's voice? He seemed far away.

"Enough." Dean's voice.  Castiel blinked.  He wanted to shake off this strange lethargy, but he couldn't.  It wasn't just the food, filling his empty gut finally.  It was the hands carding through his hair, pressing against his mouth.  Sam at his back.  The warmth of human contact, more delicious that any food.

"Starved."

"Yes he was."

"He won't be able to work like this."

"Let him go to his room and rest.  When he wakes he'll be well enough."

Sometime later, the offerings of food ceased.  Castiel's stomach felt pleasantly full, that dull ache gone.  His knees ached with cold and his hand stung but it was far away.  He felt the body behind him ease away, then he was pulled to his feet.  He let Sam lead him back to his room, tuck him into bed fully clothed.

He was asleep with Sam's hand still pressed tenderly against the skin of his forehead.

 


	8. Chapter 8

"You can talk to me," Sam said.

He was sitting on the table in the library, swinging his legs.  One oblong brown knee was in Castiel's field of view, but he ignored it, focusing on the book.

"Cas? Cas, there's no need to be ashamed."

"Please Sam, just let me work," Castiel muttered, eyes on the tome before him.  This one was no longer rigged with a disabling spell, just ripped and filthy.  It was almost more mulch than book at this point.

Castiel had awakened alone, curled up on the bed, body feeling stiff and weak, as if he was sick.  He had shaken it off, levered himself out of bed, hand on the wall when he felt a wave of dizziness.  He had no longer been hungry, but his face had been flaming, even with no one there to see his embarrassment.

In Michael's name, why had he resisted?  He had been shamed, there on the floor, propped up like a doll in Sam's grasp. Arms around his middle and fingers at his mouth and he had been turned into this strange creature, melting under the slightest tender touch, hungry for so much more than food.

A fool.

Castiel straightened his clothes, his hair, by touch instead of sight.  There was a mirror in his room—large, the type of mirror no angel had need of.  Castiel could imagine easily enough how he might look: cheeks flushed, mouth soft and open, eyes dreamy and half-mast.  Pathetic.

Castiel had pushed it away.  Better to focus on work.  He straightened his gloves—God, how his hand burned—and set out for the library.

Now he coaxed a line of print onto the first page of the book in his hands and squinted at it.

"Are you going to read them now?" Sam asked.

"It's a trick," Castiel replied, watching the ink fade back into the pulpy pages.  He paused.  Spell casting and conversation didn't mix. "I can't read them until I fix them.  And once I fix them I might regret doing so."

"Cas—"

"This one," Cas continued, voice tight, "is filled with spells so vile they're against the laws of nature."  He tapped the last book he had mended, then reflexively wiped his finger on his shirtsleeve. "It would have been better if I had burned it."

"Have you ever done that? Destroyed a book?"

"No."

Sam swung his legs. "Do you think that you can?"

Castiel leveled a glare at him.

"So why don't you do it?  Burn it."  Excitement in Sam's young voice.

"They don't belong to me," Castiel replied. "I was tasked with mending them, not destroying them.  So I will. And that, Sam, is what obedience _is_."

"You're harsher with me now," Sam observed, sounding wounded.  Castiel closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Sam blink up at him from under creased brows, eyes shiny and damp, always looking one second away from tears. "Do you blame me?  Did I trick you?"

"I think you're very good at tugging at my heart strings," Castiel said softly. Crocodile tears most likely, making Sam's eyes shine.  Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist.

"Compassion is a trick?"

"You said before there was no compassion in Hell."

"But you're not from around here," Sam said, amusement making his voice light.  Then, more serious, "I promised to guide you.  So I did.  You weren't hurt."

"I was _humiliated_."

"There isn't much softness in Heaven either, is there? To leave you so hungry to be touched?"

"That isn't why I'm here," Castiel growled.

"You don't know why you're here," Sam shot back. "Castiel, don't you question anything?"

"I feel like I've questioned everything since I've arrived."

"Of Hell? Of course you have.  You're distrustful, suspicious of us, barbarians that we are.  But Heaven?  The orders of Heaven?"

"No!" Castiel shouted, stepping back from the table.

"Why is it different?  Kneeling here or kneeling there?"

"Because Michael made me important," Castiel yelled. "He gave me responsibility.  There's no shame in bending your neck to serve a higher purpose.  Lord Winchester didn't do that!  He made it low!"

"Dean—"

"It was for his amusement," Castiel continued, face hot with anger. "I arrived and I wasn't Michael's servant.  I was a new amusement.  The way he spoke to me!  There was no purpose to my obedience!"

"There was purpose."

"Oh, I'm _sure_."

Sam tilted his head. "Because he made it sexual?"

Castiel frowned, then with confusion, stuttered, "He…I…w-what?"

Sam smiled. "You didn't pick up on that--?"

"Sam," Castiel interrupted, "I picked up on that.  I'm not a child.  It…it was just one more insult.  A bit crude in fact.  As if I'm only good for one thing.  And stupid.  To pursue an angel in that manner."

"Don't call Dean stupid," Sam said sharply.

"I meant, pursuing an angel is…well, futile." Castiel had never for a moment taken it seriously.  But now…

"Made of iron after all, are you? Won't be wooed?"

"Referring to someone as a trinket is a pathetic attempt at courtship."

Sam laughed, delighted.

"It doesn't matter," Castiel said, his voice firm.  He walked back to the table and turned his attention back to the book. "I will do my work.  I will kneel for my food.  Because I am obedient to Michael.  Dean can say what he likes to me.  I will endure it.  Now please let me work."

"I can't watch?" Sam asked.

Castiel hesitated.  He had left the glove on his injured hand—throbbing still, as if the burn was fresh—under the pretense of some of the books needing more delicate handing.  It wasn't true—for many of the tomes, being lobbed against a wall would have been an improvement—but something told him not to reveal his injury to Sam or Dean.  Another weakness to be sniffed out and exploited. Castiel didn't have many defenses; he'd keep what secrets he could.

"It makes it difficult to focus," Castiel hedged. Then more charitably, "Do you know any mending magic?"

"No," Sam said sourly. "And my power is dependent on blood. Which Dean is withholding from me."

"You don't need blood to cast a spell," Castiel said, feeling a bit like a dried-up elder, lecturing Sam. He had no idea what the boy's magical education had been, what his aptitude was. Why he had turned to banned magic.

"A leech does.  Anyway," Sam slapped a hand at the book on the table, grazing the cover, "I hate them."

"Books?" Castiel asked, confused.

"Azazel's books. I've seen what some of the spells in them can do."

"Make a man's guts twist him inside out," Castiel replied, nodding to the repaired book.  Then he had a thought and said in alarm, "Now that I've disabled the books, will someone come to steal them? To make use of them?"

Sam laughed. "I don't know if you've noticed, but they're written in High Enochian. The language of angels."

"Oh," Castiel said, feeling foolish.

"Most demons can't read," Sam continued. "And if they can, they only read Low Demonic. The books are quite safe.  Even from me."

"You…you can't read?"

"No."

"Oh, Sam."

"It’s almost pity," Sam mused, "except it's not.  What do you feel for me, Cas?"

"It's not difficult," Castiel replied. "Reading, I mean.  I can teach you."

"How deeply in debt do you want me to be, Castiel?"

For a moment, Castiel had forgotten.  Of course, in Hell, such lessons wouldn't be free.  Nothing could be given as a gift.  No kind gesture.

"We could make a deal," Castiel said slowly, "that if I teach you to read you swear to never use any of the spells in these books?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "And cut me off from such a font of knowledge?"

"There are other books—"

"Not all of these spells boil a man's blood or explode his head.  Some of them are less deadly.  If I can read, I would have the knowledge in these books.  I dislike this bargain you have suggested."

Castiel spread his arms helplessly.

"A compromise," Sam suggested. "Teach me to read.  But not any of these books.  Something…harmless.  Once I have the basics, I can set out on my own, with none of your assistance. Agreed?"

"In exchange for what," Castiel asked.

Sam hesitated.  Then smiled. "I have a source…of protection.  I can provide it to you.  So you will be safe."

"I'm not safe here?" Castiel asked dryly. "Is Dean's word not enough?"

Sam scowled.

"I would have my coat back."

"I had hoped you would have forgotten about that.  Cas, you gave it to me. It's not negotiable."

"Sam, I have need of it."

"You would leave me naked?" Sam asked, making his eyes big and dark. "Without a stitch of clothing? You would do that?"

Castiel cursed. He had no doubt Sam had other clothing…somewhere.  Why he had been naked that first night, Castiel didn’t know.  He also had no doubt that if he took his coat back then Sam would remain naked just to prove a point.  Leaving Castiel to offer his coat all over again.

"Protection it is," Sam said cheerfully in the pause of Castiel's fretting. "You will be pleased, I promise."

Castiel snorted at that. "Kiss me then."

Sam stepped forward, bringing his chest against Castiel's own.  Castiel closed his eyes at the touch, trying not to show how it affected him.  This time, Sam put a warm hand to Castiel's cheek.

"Like ice," Sam whispered.

"Just get on with it," Castiel said softly, trying not to appear too eager. 

Sam leaned in and pressed his lips to Castiel's.  A soft, brief kiss.  Then another.  And another, this one longer, Sam mouthing gently at the full curve of Castiel's bottom lip. Sam's tongue darting in gently, hot silk against Castiel's teeth.

Castiel opened his eyes and stepped back quickly.

"You didn't like it?"

"That wasn't just a kiss to make a deal," Castiel said shakily.  He had liked it.  He had liked it too much. His cheeks were burning.

"Is my attempt at courtship even more _pathetic_ than Dean's?"

" _What_?"

"You heard me."  Sam scuffed a bare toe.  He looked small and vulnerable.

"Sam, you are so young—"

"Not as young as you think."

"Much younger than me," Castiel amended, confused when Sam scowled at that comment. "Sam, there surely is someone more suitable."

"All of them biting and scratching for status," Sam said softly, stepping closer, "and none of them stepping out of the cold to throw their coat around the shoulders of an unknown demon."

He leaned in and kissed Castiel's mouth again.  This time, Castiel surrendered.  He opened up, his mouth soft, and let Sam take control.  Let Sam lick and nip, gentle at first, then rougher. It was like being swept away by a gust of wind, tumbling over and over again, wings tangled in each other, Castiel thought.  He drifted in that pleasant heat, feeling lost, yet connected.

Sam bit his lip.

"Ouch!" Castiel yelped.  Sam's thigh came up a second later, rubbing against Castiel's crotch, and Castiel reached up to grip Sam's shoulders and push him away.

"You didn’t like it?" Sam asked plaintively, confused.  His lower lip was spotted with blood.  Sam's tongue swiped out, lapped it away. His eyes fluttered shut and his throat rippled as he swallowed.

Castiel felt his mouth.  A drop of blood came away on one fingertip and he pressed his hand to his mouth, covering the small wound.

"I told you I was unsuitable," Castiel replied. "Sam, you shouldn't have bitten me."

"No, I shouldn't have," Sam agreed.  He smiled mischievously, cheeks dimpling. "But you won't tell on me."

"Tell on you to whom?"

"To Dean."

"Did we do something wrong?" Castiel asked.

"Angel blood works as well as demon blood for my purposes.  Perhaps even better. Dean has forbidden both.  My magic is on his leash."

"Oh," Castiel said.

"Cas, I didn't do it on purpose.  I didn't kiss you because I wanted your blood.  I want you."

"I don't believe you," Castiel said stiffly.  He stepped away, putting the table between them. "I don't understand anything that is done here, what anyone wants.  I don't understand!  But I don't believe you!"

"Cas—"

"Please go away," Castiel begged.  Sam circled the table and Castiel forced himself to stand still, refusing to run around it like the two of them were playing a child's game.

"I won't go away," Sam whispered in Castiel's ear. "I won't go until I want to.  And you won't make me go, will you?"

"N-no."

"You don’t know why," Sam continued, his voice that same low murmur, his breath hot on Castiel's neck, "but you won't refuse me anything, will you?  Even though you shouldn't know me.  Or owe me anything. Yet you're still looking out for me."

Sam stepped back and looked at Castiel.

"Do you know who I am, Cas?"

"You're Sam," Castiel said quietly.

"Not Samandriel?"

"Not my dead little brother.  I'm not delusional."

"I should have traded you kissing lessons for reading lessons," Sam mused.

"Well, it's too late now," Castiel said grumpily. "Sam, I'm not a good prospect for you.  Honestly."

"Have you never? Had a lover?"

In Heaven, matings were arranged.  The population, tightly controlled.  Castiel had never been chosen.  Now, at his age, he knew he never would be.

"No," Castiel said simply.

"Will you refuse me?" Sam asked.

"Our bargain? You seem to know I won't."

"It will be our secret," Sam said, eyes alight.

"From Dean?"

"He will be jealous, you know. Of the time I spend with you."

"Is that a good idea?" Castiel asked. "To keep secrets from a man willing to starve you?"

"He's not my enemy.  Or yours.  You misunderstand, Cas."

"Is he Michael's enemy?"

Sam sighed. "Stubborn. I will go.  I'll see you later, Cas."

After Sam, left, Castiel stripped off the glove.  The burn looked painfully fresh, the skin shiny and swollen.  A careless mistake.  One he wouldn't make again.

Ignoring the pain, he focused on the next book in the stack and let his magic unfurl.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel felt calmed by evening.  With food, he had been able to worked harder, and accomplish more.  A healthy pile of books had been repaired, although some of them would have served the world better if they had been permanently destroyed.  Castiel had toyed with the idea of placing protection charms on some of the nastier tomes, but had resisted.  It was Lord Winchester's problem, and Dean could deal with it as he saw fit.

Dean raised an eyebrow expectantly as Castiel walked in.  Although his cheeks flamed, Castiel took his place on his knees without complaint, only flinching slightly when Dean's hand came down on his head. Stroking Castiel's unruly hair the way he might pet a hellhound.  Although the touch felt good, it also seemed condescending, and Castiel gritted his teeth.

"The library?" Dean asked idly. One finger stroked along the curve of Castiel's ear.  If the intent hadn't been malicious, Castiel might have felt….

"Coming along, Dean," Castiel said quietly.

"I hear that you think some of the books should be destroyed."

Castiel shot a glance at Sam.  The boy glanced up, mouth stuffed with food, then looked back down at his plate, unconcerned.

"He's mine.  You shouldn't be surprised.  Everyone here reports to me," Dean said, chuckling coldly. "Here."  He pressed a piece of bread to Castiel's mouth and Castiel accepted it, chewed and swallowed.

"It’s a risk," Castiel said finally. "What's in those books…it's magic so dark it is forbidden."

"Forbidden in Heaven," Dean answered, still feeding bits to Castiel.  His fingers were warm, rough at the tips as they slid over Castiel's tongue. "The Lords of Hell were quite eager to use those spells.  And no magic is forbidden in Hell.  No matter how distasteful it might be to you, little angel."

"Fine then," Castiel said briskly, as authoritarian as he could sound on his knees below Dean, mouth still working to swallow a hunk of cheese. "Consider that those spells might be used against you. And against your…allies."

"You mean Michael," Dean sighed. "How dreadful it would be if something happened to him.  Very well. Mark some of the nastier ones, I'll bind them."

"You?!"

"Like I said, we have little manpower to spare.  Of course me."

"Couldn't Sam—"

"Prefer him to me?  He'll need blood to do that.  Should I give it to him?  Set him loose with that power I can tell you disapprove of?"

"It's a trap," Castiel muttered resentfully. "And it isn't my decision anyway, is it?"

Dean chuckled. "Now you're learning."

They finished their meal in silence.  Strangely, Castiel expected some amusement to follow.  At the Archives, there was usually tea around the fire, and conversation, before Castiel and his fellow librarians retired to their rooms.  Anna might invite Castiel to her room to listen to music, or just to talk, though he had often preferred to be on his own, away from everyone, somehow irritated by the company of others.  There were always more books, to read or to be repaired, or spells to learn, some intricacy that would better serve his work.  Now, alone among strangers, worn to the bone by complicated spellwork, he found himself longing for a distraction.

Winchester Hall, however, appeared to be all business.  After eating, Dean rose to leave with only the shortest of goodbyes, heading out of the main room swiftly.  Sam followed behind him, giving Castiel a wink before hurrying after his master. Feeling self-conscious, Castiel levered himself to his feet.  There was still a demon or two in the room, faces carefully bland; eyes following Castiel's every move. It seemed prudent, then, to retire to his room, and to have a measure of peace and privacy.

His room was cold, but Castiel fished another cozy sweater out of his trunk and then, upon second thought, another one.  Wrapped in layers, sitting in a chair before the stingy heat of the fire, he sighed into the quiet.  He could have read, but he found his eyes were tired after spending the day squinting at moldy spellbooks.  Instead, he fished a flask out of his trunk and sipped it lazily. Spirits, while not exactly frowned upon, fell under the proscription of indulgence.  However, Castiel felt the need to indulge tonight.

  His mind wandered and he thought about Winchester Hall.  He thought about what Sam had said, calling it a puzzle. He thought about Sam and Dean, the strange dance between them, Dean's cruelty and Sam's loyalty.  He thought of Michael, of what Michael might want of Castiel, of why he had been called to serve in this manner.  And maybe it was Hell, or maybe it was Sam, to have Castiel finally wondering about why he might have been placed at this post.

Castiel paused to quietly scoff at himself.  Foolish, to attribute Hell's motivations to Heaven's angels.  Especially to Michael.  There was no 'biting and scratching' in Heaven, although some angels, like Zachariah, were quite ambitious.  It had always been Michael in command.  Michael's word and Michael's law always.  Heaven: stable and orderly and unchanging.

Heaven, abandoned by renegade angels.  Castiel supposed Michael had a good enough reason to want to keep tabs on the goings-on in Hell.  But why not send a more capable angel, one schooled in warcraft or statecraft?  Why send Castiel?

The drink in the flask was smoky sweet and relaxing and soon Castiel pushed the thoughts aside.  He got ready for bed and then knelt and prayed.  Calm came easily with the additional lubrication of alcohol, but peace did not, and finally Castiel gave up and climbed in between the cold sheets, mind pleasantly blurred and ready for sleep.

Just as Castiel closed his eyes the bed dipped and he slitted them open.  Sam had bounded on the bed and with a grin he was pulling back the coverlet and sliding in beside Castiel.

"You don't have a bed, either?" Castiel asked, voice slurred with sleepy irritability.

"I have one," Sam replied, settling in shoulder to shoulder with Castiel. "I want to sleep next to you."

Castiel harrumphed, but the idea did please him.  Sam's body heat was making the bed cozily warm.

"Are you worried about your virtue?' Sam asked cheekily.

"No," Castiel grunted.

"Perhaps I should feel forlorn. Or insulted."

"You climbed into my bed like a misbehaving child," Castiel countered. "You're not allowed to flirt."

"Just as well, since it seems wasted on you.  Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Is it too late…for a lesson? A reading lesson?"

Castiel thought for a moment.  Too late for a lesson, yes.  And he was too tired to be a very effective teacher.  Still…

"In my trunk, there's a book with a red cover," Castiel instructed Sam. "Can you get it?"

Sam bounded out of the bed, leaving the covers folded back.  Castiel snarled at the cold draft, curling in on himself.  He watched Sam rustle through the trunk with some enthusiasm, turning over Castiel's belongings with careful curiosity.  Then he was back in bed with the book in his hand, clamoring back under the covers.

"My education has been…unique," Sam said, "but that does not look like a primer."

"It isn't." Castiel hesitated. "It’s too babyish for you, I suppose.  But…I read it to Samandriel." A lifetime ago.  Once a night, every night, for too short a time.  The loss still pinched at Castiel's heart.  He supposed this was the wisdom in Heaven's law, in the lack of family connections. No person-shaped holes in people's lives to circle around again and again, looking for something that would never exist again.

"It's perfect," Sam murmured.  He had tucked his head against Castiel's shoulder.

"Once upon a time...," Castiel said and felt Sam's cheek move against his shoulder as the boy smiled.  Then he told a tale of an imperious angel prince lost in a forest, a wicked witch, and talking animals.

 


	10. Chapter 10

"This room is worse than I remember," Dean said.

"It's structurally sound," Castiel replied.  Dean inhabiting the space Castiel had begun to think of as his own was disconcerting.  It was like the man sucked all the oxygen out of the room.  He made everything grand feel small.  It was difficult for Castiel not to shrink back from Dean as he paced commandingly around the library, a sharp eye on every imperfection.

Dean turned on his heel and regarded Castiel speculatively. "I say black and you say white.  Do you think there will ever be a time when you'll be willing to agree with me?"

Castiel frowned, annoyed.  He had gone to the library with the intention of being less argumentative, more biddable.  The room did indeed need work.  But instead of insulting Winchester Hall, Castiel had tried to be positive.  And had somehow ended up on Dean's bad side yet again.  He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, unsure of what to say.

He almost missed the twinkle in Dean's eye.

"No," Castiel said shortly, taking a chance on humor, and was strangely pleased when Dean smiled.

"No, I think not," Dean replied.  He brushed off his hands briskly. "You have arranged a selection for me?"

"Here," Castiel said, gesturing to the pile he had gathered up earlier in the day.  He tried not to shudder as he looked at those books.  At least one of them was bound in a hide Castiel suspected was demon skin.

Dean ran his hand over the book at the top of the pile, a frown on his handsome face. He smiled an unpleasant smile and casually said, "Magic to torture.  Seems a waste of energy.  Give a man a rack and a pair of hot tongs and he'll be just as effective."

"I wouldn't know," Castiel said shakily.

"Ah.  Angels don't get their hands dirty that way."

"The books belonged to Azazel, or so Sam said," Castiel replied. "He was an angel, wasn't he?"

"He used demons for his darkest work," Dean replied.  His eyes were intent on Castiel. "That was his trademark, and that of his most apt disciples.  Taking demon children as his pupils and twisting them into the most…exquisite executioners."

"You blame them," Castiel said slowly. "Or rather, you blame us.  Blame Michael.  For what was done in Hell."

"Little angel, we're allies now.  Michael and me.  Isn't that what you said before?"

"And you said," Castiel replied, "That you are always at war."

Dean laughed. "You amuse me so, little angel.  I wasn't sure what I would find when you rode up to my castle but I must say I am quite pleased with you."

Warmth in Castiel's chest, strangely, at the praise.  Dean felt too close.  Castiel retreated, placing the table between them, on the pretext of examining another stack of books.

"Shy?" Dean asked.

"Unbalanced," Castiel answered.

"I make you uncomfortable."

"Yes," Castiel said honestly.

"Good," Dean said, smiling faintly.  Then he changed the subject abruptly. "How did you know you would be good at book mending, Castiel? How does Heaven decide where you fit?"

Castiel blinked. "There are assessments for the fledglings…the angel children."

"And then your aptitude becomes clear?"

"Several aptitudes," Castiel explained. "A child might show talent in several areas.  Then it is up to the elders to look at temperament and suitability and the needs of Heaven."

"No choice in the matter for the child?  You didn't get to choose what you were trained for?"

"No," Castiel said. Then quickly, "I don't mind it.  Repairing books.  I'm good at it."

"And what else?" Dean asked. "What else could you have done?"

"Nothing," Castiel replied stubbornly. "It was decided."

"In another life then," Dean said.  He had drifted closer to Castiel, so close that Castiel could feel the heat from his body.  Lower his eyes away from all that shimmering green and stare at a buckle strap on Dean's black coat. "In a fantasy."

"I had hoped," Castiel said, mouth dry, "to work with children."

Dean drew back, looking honestly surprised. "Children?"

"I thought I might be a teacher," Castiel continued, feeling vulnerable, discussing old dreams on which the door had long been shut. "Or a minder in a nursery.  I had hoped."

Dean narrowed his eyes and Castiel readied himself, expecting a verbal slap, some comment about Samandriel, about weakness.  The secrets he had foolishly whispered to Sam in the night.  But Dean said, "Not a warrior?  Not one of Michael's good soldiers?"

Castiel laughed, incredulous. "A soldier?  No! I would be entirely unsuitable, I'm sure."

"As unsuitable as you are a diplomat?"

Castiel stopped laughing. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"Dean."

"That you find me lacking—"

"—would please you, if it didn't mean failing Michael," Dean responded.

"I…I—"

"Hot-tempered and defiant, little angel.  You like to break the rules. I think you would have made a terrible teacher.  You would have run as wild as your charges."

"You're making fun of me," Castiel said stiffly.

"A little.  I like it," Dean said.  He reached out and stroked his knuckles against the soft hair at Castiel's temple.  A place he stroked often, when Castiel was on his knees. "You shouldn't worry so about failing, Castiel.  You are as you were made, isn't that something they say in Heaven?"

"They say metal was made to be tempered," Castiel replied.  He eased away slowly, meeting Dean's eyes, and the demon smiled and dropped his hand.

"You've already been through the fire," Dean said, moving back to the stack of books. "We all have.  You should accept the shape you were originally cast in, let it come out more.  Now, are there any other books for me to spell?"

Castiel gestured and Dean bent his head over the work and it was almost companionable.


	11. Chapter 11

A few days went by, a new routine Castiel was growing steadily used to.  Then one morning Castiel awoke in his bed in Winchester Hall and he was alone.  Rare, as Sam had taken up residences in Castiel's quarters and was often there.  He sat up and swayed, feeling a bit dizzy.  His injured hand was curled in a claw, the glove hiding it damp to the touch.  This was bad, Castiel knew, and he bit his lip.  No healer in the Hall, at least none that had come for Dean's leech, and Castiel didn't doubt that the best he could expect in this crude land was an amputation.

He washed and dressed, stumbling a bit as he drew on his clothes.  This time the lack of coat was a blessing.  After days of being chilled, he now felt so hot he was sweating, wet droplets beading at his hairline.

Downstairs, Castiel drew up short as he entered the dining room.  Dean wasn't seated, but standing before the fire again.  Sam stood next to him, flanked by the two hellhounds.  Castiel's jacket was buttoned up tight on his slender body, and boots were on his feet.  He seemed another person, and when Castiel drew closer he could actually see black flames snapping in each of Sam's eyes.  Dark power.

"We go into battle," Dean said.

"He's just a boy," Castiel replied weakly.  He could see dried blood at the corners of Sam's mouth.

"He's a weapon," Dean replied, voice clipped.

Castiel bit his lip, swallowing everything he wanted to say.  Useless.  Sam was Lord Winchester's tool and content to remain so. Dean was staring at him, eyes narrowed.  Castiel looked up and met his gaze with a level one of his own.

"I don’t know when I will be back," Dean said. "Crowley's raiders strike from the south, at the same time as Abbadon's forces amass in the West. Convenient, the timing. Nevertheless, your care and feeding becomes a problem. I have no desire to be summoned home at dawn and dusk to feed an ungrateful angel."

"You act like this was my idea!" Castiel exclaimed.

Ignoring him, Dean snapped his fingers and beckoned a demon over.  She was pretty enough despite the smirk on her face, long dark hair cascading over the shoulders of her black dress. Peeking out beneath the long skirt was a petticoat of dark red; Castiel caught flashes of it, the color of dried blood, as she walked towards them.

"Meg," Dean said and the demon tilted her head at the introduction. "She'll be in charge of you in my absence."

"I don't need a keeper," Castiel growled.

"Our agreement is void when I'm out of the keep," Dean said. "Do you agree?"

"You want me to get on my knees for her?" Castiel asked sarcastically.

It was the wrong thing to say.  Dean drew up, face going dangerously still.  The demon, Meg, hid a smile behind her hand, but her eyes kept a watchful bead on her master.

"Never," Dean said. "By my hand and only my hand.  You'll take your meals in the hall or eat in your room while I'm away.  Meg will be my eyes and ears, so I suggest you avoid shirking at your tasks." Dean snorted. "As if you would. Now kiss me if you agree.  If you'd like to starve while I'm smiting my enemies, well, that's a choice as well."

Castiel stepped forward.  Dean pressed a brief kiss to the angel's lips.  His hand came up and lingered at Castiel's temple, toying with the curls.

"You're sweating," Dean observed.

"We're before the fire," Castiel countered.

Dean narrowed his eyes.  Then he said mildly, "Meg has a talent.  Sam told me he promised you a protection.  Meg will provide that protection.  You'll let her work the spell she needs to complete your bargain.  Do you understand?"

He didn’t, but Castiel nodded.

"Farewell, then," Dean said, dismissing Castiel. "We'll be back for supper, with a little luck."

"You'll take care of him," Castiel whispered.

"No concern for me?" Dean asked with mock outrage. "For my safety?"

"I have no doubt you can take care of yourself," Castiel snapped.

Dean smiled.  He turned on his heel, striding out of the room, Sam and the hellhounds at his heels.

Meg sidled up to Castiel.  Unlike Sam, or Dean, she kept a careful distance, her skirts swishing as she circled around Castiel.

"Angel."

"My name is Castiel."

"Castiel, then. My, my, you aren't hard on the eyes.  Come sit with me."

Meg swished across the floor, the tulle layers of her skirt swaying.  She plopped down in Dean's seat, like a queen taking her rightful place, fluffing her skirts, a small smile on her face. A click of her fingers, dark painted nails rasping against each other, and a demon underling was rushing to bring food.

Castiel joined her cautiously, sitting at her side.  The sight of the meat and cheese made his stomach roil a bit. He reached out for a piece of bread and brought it to his mouth.  Bit down and chewed. What had been impossible was suddenly easy.

"Does it lose its flavor, when it doesn't come from his hand?" Meg asked innocently.

Castiel ignored the jab. "I haven't seen you before."

"What, standing guard or fetching and carrying?  I shouldn't think so.  I'm a lady, after all."

"'Meg' isn't an angelic name," Castiel countered.  He sighed a bit, moving the food around on his plate. He had no appetite, and the sharpness in Meg's tone just made it worse. It seemed too much to hope for an uncomplicated conversation.

"Azazel was my father," Meg said, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "My mother was a demon."

"The angel that Lord Winchester overthrew was your father?"

"The very same."

"And now you serve him?" Castiel asked.

Meg opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Regime change complicates things.  Azazel certainly had his fair share of enemies.  And strangely enough, Lord Winchester is the sentimental type.  I've managed well enough, keeping my head on my neck."

"I wouldn't consider Dean the sentimental type," Castiel said.

Meg blinked. She said cryptically, "If you look close, you can see so many old things that have been kept close and dear.  Despite their uselessness."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Castiel asked.

"I like you.  So uncomplicated, so forthright.  You're a librarian or something, right?"

"Archivist."

"So show me the library," Meg said, licking grease off her fingers. "Plenty of old things in there."

"You want me to show the daughter of the deposed lord of this castle the library full of his murderous books?"

"Dean left me in charge," Meg said breezily.  She smiled, showing small, white teeth. "He obviously trusts me."

"I don't know."

"We could make a deal," Meg said lightly. "If you're feeling nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Castiel said.  Why did he feel responsible?  If Lord Winchester's trust in Meg was misplaced, that was his problem, not Castiel's. He had been treated like a foolish child by Dean, surely the demon hadn't placed Castiel in any position to be a guardian over the books.

"If I let you in," Castiel said, "you can't touch a single book."

Meg grinned and lazily crossed her heart, dark nail dragging against the pale skin of her décolletage.

"And in exchange…" Castiel floundered.  He wasn't sure what he wanted in return.

Meg snapped her fingers. "Knowledge. It's power, naturally.  I go into the library, leave the books alone, and give you a little history lesson on Hell and Winchester Hall.  Illuminate a few of the old, useless things for you. Answer your burning questions."

"You'll tell me about who Lord Winchester is fighting?"

"Sure."

"Okay," Castiel said anxiously.

Meg smiled wider. "Pucker up."

She rose out of her seat with a swish of skirts and rounded the table.  Castiel felt her mouth press down on his, lips cool and soft, and then she was drawing back, hair in a curtain around her grinning face.

"Left a little paint on you," she said and drew her thumb across the curve of Castiel's lower lip.  She pulled back a finger smeared in red. He nearly flinched back until his brain kicked in and he realized Meg's mouth was glossy with cosmetics, not blood.  She rubbed her fingers together, face thoughtful, then looked up at Castiel and smiled, teeth white and sharp.

After breakfast, Castiel kept his word and led Meg up the stairs to the library.  The door swung open at his touch and they entered. Castiel had expected Meg to advance on the books with suspicious intent, but she spared them barely a glance.  Instead, she studied the murals on the wall, hands clasped behind her back, feet apart in a mannish gesture. She caught Castiel's darting glance between the books and herself and let out a low chuckle.

"I never cared about the books, Castiel," Meg said.

"The murals?"

"I'm an artist. Or rather, art is my magical aptitude.  Much more subtle than casting spells that make demons bleed from their eyeballs.  I can weave protections using color and plaster.  Or create a snare from a smear of chalk."

"Did you create these murals?" Castiel asked.  He felt a bit bad for her, if it was true. They had been thoroughly destroyed, but from what little he could see still clinging to the plaster, they had once been beautiful.

"Yes.  And shattered them." Meg raised an eyebrow at Castiel. "You're surprised?"

"It's my job to repair things," Castiel said.  He considered the books he fixed to be a form of art. "Not destroy them."

Meg shrugged. "If an artist hasn't taken a blade and slashed her own canvas a time or two, she's not much of an artist."

"Why don't you create new ones?"

"Lord Winchester likes them the way they are," Meg said. She shrugged. "Like I said, sentimental."  She walked over to one of the shelves and perused the books lined up there.  She pointed to a thick tome. "That one.  Get it down for me please."

Castiel did as he was asked, placing the book on the table. At Meg's nod, he opened it.

The first page folded out on all sides, the paper deeply creased.  It was a map, Castiel saw, a map of Hell.

"Knowledge," Meg said. "Let me keep my half of the bargain.  This is a map of Hell. It's been spelled, of course, to change as Hell changes.  Shifting boundaries and leaderships make traditional mapmaking a headache.  This is much better."

"The border of Heaven," Castiel whispered, smoothing a finger along the map.

Heaven lay to the east of Hell, the border marked with a smooth line of red.  Castiel looked down at it, blinking.  He wiped sweat from his brow.

"Homesick?"

He was not.  He remembered quite clearly, his time in the Archives, his colleagues, his purpose.  But it felt like another life now, one he wasn't sure he fit.  One he wasn't particularly eager to return to.  His work here was much more thrilling, challenging.

Castiel shrugged, feeling guilty.

"Crowley is here," Meg said, pointing to a line on the south side of the map.

"He's dangerous?"

Meg laughed. "He's a buffoon.  A demon who calls himself the 'King of Hell.'  He's a nuisance, really, raiding on the border.  No, that's not who we have to look out for."

"Then who?" Castiel whispered.

"Lord Winchester goes to fight Abbadon.  Her forces are to the West.  She's an angel, one of the few remaining. She fights for Lucifer."

"Lucifer," Castiel whispered.

"You've heard of him?"

"He was Michael's…brother.  He died, long ago.  Michael said…" Castiel couldn't gather his thoughts. His head was spinning.  Michael's brother, his most beloved, fleeing to Hell?

It hadn't been mentioned in the book Sam had given him.

There were temples in Heaven, dedicated to Lucifer, to filial love.  Lucifer was a romantic figure, long dead, a tragedy.  An ideal to mourn.  The idea of Lucifer defying Heaven's law and ruling in Hell knocked the legs out from under everything Castiel had ever known.

Lucifer.  Fallen.

"He's…alive?"

"So they say," Meg said. "Injured and weak and holed up in the mountains. Abbadon is doing most of the fighting, but she's hard on her demon forces, throwing bodies at us like feeding coal to a fire.  It's the last real threat.  Lord Winchester is allied with most of the other demon lords, at various levels of reliability.  It's as peaceful as Hell gets."

"What about before?" Castiel asked, mouth dry.

"Before?"

"Before the angels were overthrown," Castiel said, heart pounding.  He stared down at the map.  The terrain was picked out in shades of brown and green, blue lines for water.  He could almost imagine how it looked from the sky.

"I suppose you want to know about Azazel and Alistair."

"What?"

Meg nodded. "It's in the book, somewhat. Read at your leisure.  Azazel was Sam's master.  Alistair was Dean's."

"They wouldn't want me to know," Castiel murmured, thinking out loud.  He folded the map closed and lifted the next page.

"It's a genealogy," Meg said. "Demon breeding lines.  None of us are ashamed of our heritage. My mother was of good stock, from the Masters line.   Alistair's line was well thought of as well.  Azazel favored the demons he fathered. It's not who we are that haunts us, but what we were made to do."

"You're half-angel," Castiel said.

"I don’t have wings.  Or claim to Heaven.  I am what I am and Hell is my home," Meg said.  She examined Castiel with a critical eye. "I won't paint you here."

"Paint me!"

"Sam promised you protection, yes?  It's what I do.  Portraits, spelled with powerful magic.  He wants me to paint you.  I think some place more private is in order."

"I need to work today," Castiel argued weakly.  He did not want his portrait painted.  He quietly cursed Sam and the subtle traps he kept tripping over in Hell.

Meg pursed her lips. "Tomorrow then. No problem." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "It's too cold here.  I'm going back down."

"It's too cold everywhere," Castiel grumped.

Meg paused and smiled faintly. "Not everywhere.  There are some rooms in this castle that are quite warm indeed. Heat rises to the top, just follow the stairs.  You've never gone exploring, Castiel?"

"No."

"Hm. Perhaps for the best.  Knowledge is all well and good, but some things are better left in the dark.  I'll see you at supper, angel."

She was gone from the room with a swish of her skirt.

 


	12. Chapter 12

_Castiel dreamed of war.  He dreamed of the smell of blood, close and rank, of the feel of it on his hands. He dreamed of the sky on fire, of churning wings as loud as a thunderclap.  Then he was falling, plummeting to the ground, trees rising up to meet him._

"Be easy, Cas."

Castiel jerked awake, heart pounding.  His stomach and head ached and he was sheened with sweat. Sam was climbing into the bed beside him.  His hair was damp and brushed away from his face, as if he had just bathed, but he still smelled of smoke and ash. He smelled like war.

Castiel didn't care.  He cuddled close, feeling groggy and sick, relieved to see Sam again.  His gloved hand ached when he reached out, so he tucked it against his chest and buried his cheek in Sam's shoulder instead.  It was dawn, nearly, the sky lightening beyond the leaded glass window of Castiel's room.

"You are safe?" Castiel murmured.

"Unharmed.  Dean as well," Sam said. "Just rest."

"You’re tired?"

"I'm like a live wire," Sam said, laughing softly. "Awake and ready to go.  Blood does that.  But I knew you'd want to see me.  You do want to see me, don’t you?"

"Yes. Even though you let the cold air in."

"Good," Sam said.  He pressed a lazy kiss to Castiel's mouth. "You feel warm enough. Hot even.  You're sweating. Do you want to sleep more?  I must go soon."

"I'm fine," Castiel said.  He had taken his draught before bed, but now his hand throbbed.  The pain and the unsettling nightmare wouldn't let him slip back into sleep.

"I missed you. How did you get on with Meg?"

"Alright, I guess. Sam, I want to ask…a portrait?"

Sam laughed. "Does it bother you?"

"I don't want a portrait."

"Feeling tricked again? I want a portrait of you.  But it's not a trick. It's for you, just as much as it's for me.  And anyway, you made a deal.  It's binding."

Castiel grumbled wordlessly into Sam's shoulder.

"Why does the idea of a portrait bother you?  Do you not like the way you look?"

"What?"

"I've seen you avoid mirrors," Sam said.

"I don't…"

"You do.  When you rise.  When you pray.  I see your eyes slip right past it.  Why is that?"

"It's a big mirror, Sam," Castiel said.  It was.  The mirror in the room was big enough that if he turned his head, he would be able to see himself, curled up with Sam in the bed, seeking comfort where he had no right to.  Being weak instead of strong. It was shame, Castiel realized, that kept him from looking at his own reflection.

Castiel said, "Vanity is a sin."

"I don't think you're vain," Sam replied, smiling. "Although you should be.  You needn't worry about the portrait.  I'll keep it in my quarters."

"So you do have rooms," Castiel grumbled.

"I do."

"Higher up, in the warmer parts of the castle?"

Sam frowned. "Did Meg say something…?"

"She encouraged me to go exploring." Castiel frowned. "Or warned me not to.  It wasn't easy to tell, with her."

"You've been content to stay within a limited number of rooms," Sam said, sounding thoughtful. "Are you chafing at the confinement?"

"No," Castiel said.  It had always been that way with him.  To stay in the smaller, darker warrens of the Archives, to shun company, even when he felt cooped up and lonely.  To focus on his work.  He had not been outside once since he had arrived in Hell.  It was not just concerns for his safety. "Perhaps I have been too preoccupied…"

"I'll take you out," Sam said impulsively, propping himself up on one elbow, tumbling Castiel off his shoulder. "When this campaign has ended, we'll go riding!"

The idea of being jostled on a horse sounded unappealing to Castiel.  He could use some fresh air, but whenever he opened the casement on his window, the bitter wind that greeted his nose stank of ash.  It was the same tongue-thickening flavor as the water of Hell, making him feel wind-chapped and dusty.  Unclean.

"Castiel?"

"Hm?"

"Do you…do you have another book?"

"I should get a primer," Castiel said.

"That's how children learn.  I'd rather you read to me.  I like watching your finger trace along the words, listen to how you shape them with your lips and tongue."

Castiel flushed. "An inefficient way to learn."

"But you have one? Another book?"

"Yes, I have several—"

"I'll pick!" Sam bounded out of bed, letting a cold draft gust under the covers.  Castiel groaned, turning on his side to watch the boy open Castiel's trunk with casual familiarity.  He drew out a slim book and Castiel blushed when he saw the gilded title on the cover.

"Not that one, Sam."

"Why not?"

"It's…inappropriate."

"A sexy book?" Sam's mouth quirked.

"A romance.  It's not…I don't…"

"Cas, are you ashamed?" Sam asked, tone teasing.

Flustered, Castiel opened his mouth to protest further, then stopped.  It was a harmless, private vice, his habit of reading romances, dreaming of a relationship he knew he was forbidden to him in Heaven.  And Sam, raised in Hell, couldn't possibly shame Castiel for it, the way an angel might.

"Bring it here."

"Yes!"

"If anything, you'll learn some choice vocabulary," Castiel said dryly, as Sam bounded onto the bed.

"I may ask you to read and re-read the spicier parts."

"It's more…sappy, than sexual, Sam. Sentimental, focused on the emotional bond between the two characters.  I'm sure it's unsuitable for Hell."

"You make us sound heartless," Sam murmured, settling at Castiel's shoulder. "Some of the most passionate romances have originated in Hell.  Stories of desire that burned so bright it left its mark on the lovers."

"Love doesn't burn like that in Heaven," Castiel replied. "It's usually sweet and sad and private."

"It's like that here, too," Sam said.  Then quieter, "My parents loved like that, or so I've been told. Love where there was only supposed to be duty, breeding. I don't know for sure, though.  They died when I was young."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Have you ever been in love, Cas?"

No hesitation. "No."

"Hm."

"And you?" Castiel blurted, then flushed.  Why would it even matter?

"Once," Sam said, and he blinked impishly up at Castiel, sweet smile on his face. "Once I fell in love at first sight.  It was raw and complete and over in a few days."

"Oh," Castiel said.  Sympathizing with Sam's pain was probably the appropriate response, but some selfish, ugly part of Castiel was glad that Sam's lost love had ended.

"Just read, Castiel," Sam said with a sigh, snuggling closer, and although his throat was a bit raw and his head ached from fever, Castiel opened the book and began to read the words as smoothly as possible, finger drifting over the words, head companionably resting against Sam's.

 


	13. Chapter 13

"Hold still," Meg said.

"I am," Castiel replied testily.  He felt a bit dizzy, sitting upright in a very stiff brocade chair.  His hand twitched against the arm rest, throbbing.

"You're trembling," Meg replied, hand on her hip.  She'd covered her confection of skirts with a heavy apron of glossy black leather, and had previously been slapping her brush through the paint and onto the canvas with some haste and violence.

"I've been sitting for hours," Castiel countered.  He had.  He'd opened his eyes to a bed empty of Sam, to a cold, lonely room and an aching head and painful hand.  Meg had rushed him through breakfast—which Castiel had felt too ill to eat—leading him toward a chair before the large fireplace in the hall. She had sketched him throughout the early morning, in charcoal, and after a short break, Meg had set out her oil paints and had moved to work at a mid-sized canvas.  It was now past lunch—not that Castiel felt hungry—and Castiel just wanted to lie down.

"Poor baby," Meg said lightly, pushing her red lips into a pout. "It's not exactly difficult work, is it? Sitting in a chair?"  She worked her brush into a mound of blue pigment, and began to dab at the canvas with confident, sharp jabs.

"I'm not adverse to hard work," Castiel gritted out, then felt chagrined when Meg smiled, realizing he'd been baited.

"Heaven's a leisurely place, or so I hear," Meg continued, eyes intent on her canvas. "Pleasure gardens and airy pavilions and green lawns? Pretty?"

"Orderly," Castiel retorted.  Then he added, more thoughtfully, "It is a green place.  An open place. Well-designed and well kept." He frowned, trying to remember the last time he had left the Archives, the last time he'd taken a walk under Heaven's cool blue sky.

"Don't frown," Meg scolded.

"Sorry."

"I'm teasing," Meg answered, still furiously slashing paint on the canvas in front of her. "It's just light and shadow at this point.  Color.  A crinkle between your brows won't hurt much."

"At least you didn't drape me across a settee, nibbling grapes."

Meg chuckled, a little bark of sound. "Sam would have liked that.  Dean's the mastermind behind this little tableau.  He told me to put you in a chair as stiff as you are."

"It's not particularly leisurely in Heaven," Castiel countered, ignoring her stinging comment about Dean. "Everyone has work to do.  Purpose."

"As do we in Hell," Meg said sweetly.  She squirted a dollop of red on her palette. "Keep facing front please."

"Will it take much longer?" Castiel asked.

"We'll take a break soon," Meg murmured, eyes on her art. "Then start up again in a few hours, once my canvas has dried.  I want to get the reflection of light from the fire."

Castiel knew little about creating art.  Still, he frowned and said, "Won't the light be different, later in the day?"

Meg grinned. "Doesn't matter for this kind of art."

When they finally took a break from the sitting, it took more effort than normal for Castiel to leverage himself out of the chair.  He walked towards his room, one hand on the stone wall, as spots danced before his eyes.

"You all right?" Meg called after him, digging in to a meal at the table, leather apron tossed carelessly on the floor.

"Fine," Castiel managed to call back.  He made it to his room, gasping, and collapsed down on his bed.

He had one last thought, before settling into a troubled sleep.  That he was seriously ill, that he needed help, and refusing to ask for it was being beyond foolish.

A demon woke him in the early evening, and Castiel struggled out of twisted dreams, forcing himself to stand.  He changed his shirt for one less sweat-drenched, washed his face, then made his way down to the main hall with difficulty.  Meg only raised her eyebrows at his approach, gestured for him to take his position, and began slapping down more paint.

A few minutes in, Castiel dozed off.

He awoke to Meg's hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and he jerked awake, flinching away.  He was stiff and achy from sleeping in the chair, or maybe that was the pain.  He rotated his bad shoulder.

"Is it done?' he asked hoarsely.

"Almost," Meg said.  "Look."

She had turned the painting to face him.  Castiel studied it.  It was different, he thought, than any portrait he'd previously seen.  No fussy attempt at precise details.  Instead, the brush strokes were big, rough.  There was the suggestion of eyes, of a mouth.  Lots of garish color.  The overall effect, Castiel decided, was attractive, yet somehow unfinished.  Juvenile.

"It's very nice," he offered gamely.

Meg snorted. "It's not finished.  Just a minute."

She stepped in front of the painting, cracking her knuckles.  He fingers waved in front of the painted surface, and she muttered an incantation under her breath.  The hair on Castiel's neck rose as he felt the pulse of powerful magic, and the painting rippled, twisting and shifting, as Meg murmured her spell.

"There," she said, sounding pleased, and stepped away, allowing Castiel a full view.

She had turned it into a mirror, Castiel thought, then shook his head, dazed.  No, here and there he could see the glimmer of paint.  But the overall impression was a skillful illusion.   It seemed less a painting and more a reflection of himself.

"Amazing," he murmured.

Yet there was a flaw.  Castiel shifted forward, squinting.

"It's not quite right," he said.

"It's perfect," Meg countered, sounding offended. "If there is one thing I know how to do it's spelled portraits!"

"You made me too young," Castiel exclaimed.  The face staring out of the painting was definitely his, but he looked scarcely a few years older than Sam.  It was the portrait of a young man who had left adolescence behind, but still had that soft youthfulness to his face.  Castiel, as he had been years ago, sitting in a formal, almost judgmental pose, white shirt buttoned prudishly up to his chin, big eyes solemn in a sharply planed face. He felt his eyes jerk way, flinching at the image, yet drifting back.  He was fascinated.

"It's you," Meg said simply.  She crossed her arms, studying the painting with a satisfied air.

"I look like a child!"

"Maybe it's those big blue eyes," Meg answered.

"If Sam will be pleased, "Castiel replied hesitantly, bemused.  He didn’t know if Sam would.  It was beautiful, the painting, and perhaps Sam would like the idea of Castiel painted younger, so that they were more of an age.  Maybe Sam had asked Meg to render Castiel younger, maybe it was a fantasy.  Harmless, Castiel supposed.  He did not age in reverse and could not make the image in the painting a reality.

The painting shimmered before his eyes and Castiel blinked.  The image of a young man, with sharp cheekbones and a soft, full mouth, shifted before his eyes.  Like the magic it was the painting changed, and now Castiel was looking at himself, bare from the waist up, crouched on the ground instead of perched in the chair.  His image looked tortured, in agony, teeth gripping his bottom lip, eyes wet with pain.  The painting-Castiel clutched his reddened hand, and Castiel could clearly see the streaks of red and pink trailing like ink in the water up his forearm, his shoulder, and towards his heart.

"You're hurt!" Meg exclaimed.  Her eyes darted towards Castiel's gloved hand.

"I'm fine," he gritted out, standing with effort.  She reached for him and Castiel shifted away, nearly unbalancing himself.

"Castiel!"

"I said, I'm fine," he retorted, striding away, nearly running.  His head was spinning.  He tilted forward with determination and ran headlong into a firm, unyielding surface.  Hands came up to grip his forearms and Castiel found himself eye to eye with Lord Winchester.

"What's the matter, little angel?" Dean asked, frowning down at him.  Castiel jerked in Dean's grip.  The scent of flame and blood surrounded Dean like a cloud, nauseating Castiel.  There was a smear of dark blood along Dean's fine-boned cheek.  Behind him stood Sam, face sooty and grave.

"How goes the battle?" Castiel asked weakly.

"Don't evade the question," Sam said sharply.  He craned his neck to see around Castiel and Castiel flinched.  He could see it now, the painting, his own tortured image.  The secret of his injury, revealed for all to see.

Castiel jerked out of Dean's grip, stumbling away. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Sam exclaimed.  He reached out for Castiel and Castiel sidestepped, stumbling, one hand out.  A flick of Castiel's fingertips and Sam cursed, shoved back by raw power.

"Excuse me," Castiel said, hurrying away.  He did not want to be writhing on the rug, in agony, surrounded by the emotionless faces of demons, spectators in his suffering.  He could damn well die in his room, in private.  He hurried into the hallway and began to climb the stairs to his room.

"How long have you been injured?" Sam asked from behind him.  Castiel stiffened, but didn't turn.  He could almost feel both men behind him, following at a pace, warily.

"Leave it alone, Sam," Castiel replied, breathing heavily.  The top of the landing seemed very far away.

"How long would you have let it go on?  What would have happened if I hadn't asked Meg to make the painting?  Dammit Castiel, look at me!"

Castiel shook his head, still climbing.  Almost there now.

At the top of the landing, a hellhound appeared, huge and oily dark, teeth gleaming.  Bella, Castiel's gibbering mind supplied. Castiel stumbled back, felt his heel catch on a step. 

In an instant, he was falling.

It was different, Castiel thought muzzily, as he tumbled through open air.  This time, there was no whisper of wings, no curls of smoke.

Madness.  He would hit hard.

Before he could crack down on unforgiving stone, Castiel felt two pairs of hands grip him, buffering him up.  He slammed into two bodies, much more forgiving that stone.  Nevertheless , the breath was jarred out of him.  He tumbled away, rolling onto the stone floor, unharmed.  Green eyes were staring into his own, angry and concerned.

Dean, Castiel thought.  Then he closed his eyes, and darkness swallowed him.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Castiel surfaced into consciousness, aware at first only that he felt warm for the first time in a long time. No fever burning up his blood, chills shaking his body.  No ache in his hand or his back. There was no draft biting through the fabric of his clothes, no chill seeping up through the stone floor of Winchester Hall to leech through the leather of his boots.  He was finally warm and…floating.  He drifted.

Some unknown amount of time later, Castiel shifted, coming awake.  His eyes fluttered open.  He was in a bath, the water deliciously hot against his skin.  He shifted slightly, watching the water lap at the edge of the copper tub he was resting in.  He was sitting against…something.  The shape was irregular, but Castiel felt comfortable.  Cradled.  He shifted again and felt the rasp of a hairy leg against his own.  His eyes popped open fully.

"Awake." It wasn't a question, delivered in that low voice that had become so familiar to Castiel. Dean.  There was none of the usual biting coldness in the voice purring in Castiel's ear.  It was like the hot water had washed that away as well, along with Castiel's chill.

"I beg your pardon," Castiel said, his voice still breathy, his lungs tight with ache.  He was naked, they both were, Dean seated behind Castiel in the tub, enveloping Castiel's body with his own.  Every inch of warm, wet skin could be felt, all the places where Dean's body was pressed against Castiel's.   Unnerved at both the intimacy of the contact and how strangely natural it felt, Castiel struggled to rise. It took only a moment for him to realize he was in no condition to stand. At that same moment, Dean's strong, callused hands clamped down on Castiel's forearms, stilling his futile movement.

"Stay still.  You've been ill and had a fall. Surely you can be sensible after that."

"I can.  It's just…this is too…" Castiel struggled to find the words.

"Too…?"

"Too much.  Do you have to be in the tub with me?"

"You would have drowned otherwise," Dean said.  Then sharper, "Would you rather I get Sam?"

"No," Castiel said. Every interaction between Lord Winchester and his leech seemed only to serve in placing Castiel in some kind of debt, all in a fruitless attempt to mollify Dean.  Weak as he was, Castiel didn't feel he had the wits or the energy for such an exchange.

"Then stay where you were put. All this time and you're still struggling to follow orders."

"I'm not." Castiel didn't need to turn to imagine the smirk on Dean's face. He amended, "Heaven's orders. Orders that make sense."

"Being contrary is probably a sin," Dean said, his voice lighter than normal, almost playful.  His tongue no longer a whip trying to drive Castiel.  The hands that gripped Castiel's arms began to slide soothingly up and down, sending gooseflesh rippling pleasantly along Castiel's skin. Hands that Castiel had only seen move in violence, in efficient cruelty, petting along his flesh, firm yet gentle.

"My hand…"

"Has been set to rights," Dean said, voice low in Castiel's ear. "I do have some talent in that area."

"You're a healer?" Castiel thought of Sam that first night, but he was too tired to raise his voice in anger.

"Most of my talent lies in…the opposite direction.  It was almost too late for you.  Poison, streaking towards your heart."

"There was a spell on one of the books…"

"I figured as much." Dean sighed. "Why didn't you say something?"

Castiel bit his lip. "That first night…Sam…I didn’t think you would help."

"Idiot," Dean said softly. "Michael gave you to me.  I'm to feed and care for you.  You're mine."

"I'm Michael's," Castiel countered, feeling unbalanced.  Dean's hands were still stroking softly up Castiel's arms.

"So you say," Dean murmured. "But I would have never let your injury go untreated."

"I didn't think you liked me much," Castiel blurted in confusion, driven to honesty by the strange intimacy of the moment.

"I know you don't care much for me," Dean countered in his usual blunt manner, sounding unoffended.  He leaned forward, breath puffing against Castiel's neck.

"I find you cruel."

Castiel felt Dean nod, the rasp of his cheek against Castiel's own. "I am."

The continued stroking of Castiel's' skin felt good.  He felt his body grow heavier with the pleasure of it.  He should ask to Dean to stop, but he hesitated, torn.  Antagonizing Lord Winchester made Castiel's head ache, and he didn't want to argue.  Truthfully, they were as close as two men could be, skin touching everywhere, and such a protest seemed both prissy and imprudent.  Also, it felt good.  It felt good to be touched.  Castiel held his tongue and sank back into the sensation, letting himself be weak and have the touch that he craved.

"You could be a good man," Castiel said, voice languid, pleasure making him earnestly blunt. "And a good ruler, too.  If you led with kindness instead—"

"Is Michael kind?" interrupted Dean.

"I—"

"No.  And you don't expect it from him, your Emperor-God.  But me, I'm only a man. A demon."

"My Lord—"

" _Dean_." One of Dean's rough hands came up, gripped Castiel's chin.  Tilted him into a kiss that was surprisingly soft, light scrape of beard and press of warm lips.  Castiel shifted weakly in Dean's grasp.  A kiss.  He'd never been kissed by Dean like that before, with such lazy, sensual affection.  Kisses meant for deal-making didn't count.  Dean drifted down from Castiel's mouth, pressing a series of small kisses against the skin of Castiel's throat, against his fluttering pulse.  It felt wonderful and Castiel tilted his chin to allow Dean better access.  He let his eyes slip shut as Dean's mouth worried gently at his throat, drifting with sensation.  Dean's tongue lapped across Castiel's collarbone and Castiel shivered, then yawned with a smile.

"Little angel?"

"Mm?"

"Are you falling asleep while I'm trying to seduce you?"

"Seduce me?" Castiel blinked his eyes open, surprised.

"Yes."

Castiel couldn't help it.  He tilted his head back and laughed.

"What is it?" Dean growled impatiently. His voice, which had been warm and indulgent only moments before, took on it's old, familiar bite.

"You can't seduce me," Castiel said.

"Why not?  Too dark for you? Too low? Too tainted? Too old?" Dean's tone became dangerous at the word 'old', and Castiel thought of Sam for a moment, before he pushed the image of the boy from his head. "Or do you only lie with other angels?"

"Angels usually don't lie with anyone," Castiel said honestly.  It was mostly true.  He reached out for Dean's hand, took it in his own.  He slid it down to the sigil tattooed low on his flank.  Perhaps for another the move would have been pure seduction, but Castiel made it perfunctory, a swift, economical move.

"What is this, little angel?" Warm, blunt fingers tapped to marks at Castiel's waist. Dean's magic, coming in to contact with the mark, shot little slivers of electricity against Castiel's skin.

"A binding.  One that keeps an angel from…carnal pleasure."

"My touch doesn't please you?" Dean sounded incredulous, even as his magic tasted the spell on Castiel's skin, learning its purpose, its truth.

"Your touch feels good," Castiel admitted. "Your touch, your body." He felt Dean shift behind him, the rasp of Dean's flesh against his own. "A simple pleasure. But nothing more."

It was true. A warmth could build in Castiel's belly—it was there now—and his skin could thrill to touch, but that was all.  Unlike Dean's hard length that Castiel could feel when he shifted, the flesh between Castiel's legs would remain limp.  Like desire was a fly caught in a web, twisting futilely, unable to flutter free.  He could take comfort from touch, but his blood wouldn't fire.

"A cruel Emperor-God indeed," Dean said, disgust in his voice, "To castrate an entire nation of subjects."

"It isn't forever," Castiel replied.  In truth, he was no longer bothered by it, now he knew that his chance to be authorized to father a child had probably passed. "Once an angel is approved to mate, the binding is broken.  So that two angels might create a child…"

"Barbaric."

Castiel said nothing.  Heaven was order.  Hell was barbaric.  His opinion of Hell was clear.  But airing his undiplomatic feelings in front of Dean would serve him nothing.  Yes, there were disappointments in Heaven.  Personal dreams that angels had, that would go unfulfilled.  It was necessary for the greater good.

"And these?" Dean's fingertip traced each sigil on Castiel's shoulder blade, making the angel shiver.  The left one twinged, as it often did, but Castiel ignored it.

"I'm not a warrior," Castiel said hoarsely. "Wings are for Michael's soldiers and heralds."

"Cock and wings.  Is there any part of you that hasn't been strapped down and hidden away?"

"My mind," Castiel retorted sharply.  If he'd had the energy, he would have struggled away from Dean. Put space between them.  A reminder of how Castiel belonged to Michael. Of how he belonged to the Light.

"Then what is this?" Dean said suddenly.  His fingers danced up the back of Castiel's neck, tangling in the hair at Castiel's nape.  Despite his ire, Castiel nearly moaned with how good the touch felt.

"What? What do you mean?"

"This spell."

"There is no spell…" His voice trailed off. Because Castiel could feel it now.  A shimmer of power brought to life by Dean's questing fingers. A fourth sigil, at the base of Castiel's skull. One he himself should have felt, the minute it had been cast on his body.  And against all odds, he hadn't felt it.  He hadn't felt it at all.

But when had it been placed on his head?

"You didn't know?" Dean asked.

"I..I don't remember." Castiel felt his breathing speed up.  Who had done that to him? Who?  He probed with his own magic, shuddering when his questing power slipped off the sigil, almost as if it wasn't there.  Only Dean's fingers in contact with the mark made it visible.  Hidden.  What did the spell do?  Who had done it?

"You probably don't." Dean snorted. "A spell placed just here…this is memory magic.  Some dark and nasty piece of spellwork."

Castiel's skin crawled and despite his physical weakness, he tried to struggle out of the tub, as if he could run away from his own marked body.  Dean gripped him, arms an iron band across Castiel's chest, holding him down.  Castiel thrashed weakly sending water splashing over the rim of the tub.  He reached with his magic for the sigil again.  Off, he couldn't get it off.

"Let me go!"

"No, you'll hurt yourself.  Calm down, Castiel!"

Castiel struggled a bit more, before sagging into Dean's grip, breathing hard.  His limbs were weak from the exertion, his breathing short and painful.

"Get it off," Castiel pleaded.

"I can't."

"You can! You like to make a deal, I know you do. A bargain? Charge me what you like, only remove the spell!" Castiel could feel it more now, now that he was aware of it.  He had a sense of the lines of the mark pressing back against his own craft, dark and greasy, before slipping away as if they weren't there at all.

"Castiel—"

"Please!  Please, I'll do anything.  Just remove it!"

Dean was quiet. Then his hand drifted back up, palmed the back of Castiel's skull.  Castiel felt Dean test the sigil, pressing in, looking for the key to making the spell unlock.  Pressure built behind Castiel's eyes as Dean pressed harder, and harder.  His head began to pound.  His stomach roiled.

"Stop!"

"Just let me—"

"Stop!" Castiel wrenched away, bending over the edge of the tub.  He vomited and vomited, even though what came up was little more than watery bile.  When there was nothing more to come up, he sagged back against Dean again, wiping at his mouth.

"I can't," Dean said quietly, once Castiel had slumped down, exhausted.  A snap of Dean's fingers and a demon was scuttling out of the shadows to mop at the mess on the floor, a second demon darting forward to press a metal cup to Dean's hand. Castiel sipped weakly when Dean held the cup up to his lips.  Just water, Hell's water, that familiar, hated ashy taste.  Castiel's stomach lurched again. He pushed the cup away with a trembling hand.

"I can't break the sigil," Dean repeated, voice strange. "It's powerful.  I think only the one who made it can remove it."

 


	15. Chapter 15

Castiel went to bed and rested for several days.  He slept heavily, feeling drained and shaky, healing from the burn on his hand, the infection in his body.  Nightmares came, but he was so deeply under he didn't remember what he dreamed.  He jerked awake, his eyes fluttering open to take in the sight of Sam, eyes worried, sitting on the bed, or Dean, before the fire of the room, arms crossed.  After a while, his eyes began to open only to the sight of Meg, reading a book or sketching, patiently keeping vigil, and Castiel surmised that Dean and Sam had returned to the front lines, to their war.

One day he woke and felt well enough to get up.

His head pounded a bit and his mouth felt dry.  He sipped some water, wincing, then bathed and dressed, tender with his own weakened body.  He had not done any work for a while and he felt well enough to manage some small repair spells, nothing drastic. 

He felt restless and bored enough to try channeling magic through his body.

Duty nagged him.  And if focusing on his responsibilities could take his mind off the mysterious sigil at the base of his skull—memories locked away against his will—he would take the opportunity.

Once downstairs, Castiel found himself very much alone.  No sign of Meg, and the few demons that tended to the daily tasks of keeping the hall had an unsettling way of staring right through Castiel, as if he didn't exist.

After a solitary breakfast, Castiel returned to the library.  He had kept a sweater on, yet still he shivered.  The library felt colder than ever and Castiel found himself tiring after only a few small spells, his chilled body still healing. When a spell to repair a dog-eared page came out of him in a shivery wheeze, he knew well enough to admit defeat.

Going back to his room to be cold and alone sounded unappealing.  He was tired of lying in bed, being an invalid.  Also, the circling of his thoughts, round and round, with no answer to the puzzle of the spell cast on his memories.  He wanted to march into Heaven and demand an answer, but he didn’t know from whom.  A healer? The other angels at the archives? Lord Zachariah? 

There was no one to ask.

Searching for a distraction, Castiel thought back to his conversation with Meg, about how heat rose, and that some rooms in Winchester Hall were warm.  Being in one of those warm rooms sounded very appealing.

The climb up the stairs was hard.  It had been taxing to get to the library, but the stairs did curl higher, and Castiel followed them, feet settling carefully on the stones, one hand on the wall for balance.  The passage curled up and up, spiraling, as if it led up the sky itself.  Castiel continued up, beginning to pant heavily, doubt creeping in his stomach.  He might need to be carried back to his room, he thought, and laughed a bit grimly at the image of petite Meg swinging him over her shoulder like a sack of grain.

Finally, he came to the head of the stairs.  There was a door, slim below a heavy lintel, and Castiel pushed at it with his fingers.  Locked.  He hesitated…then murmured to it, the way that Sam did when he was entering the library.

The door swung open.

Castiel swallowed a gasp of delight as he carefully stepped inside and a curl of heated air stroked along his face.  The room was very warm, the walls lined with a series of small fireplaces cordoned off with decorative grates.  The light in the room was low and golden.  The floor was heaped with soft rugs, piled thick, hiding the cold stone floors of Winchester Hall.  Embroidered draperies covered the cold walls, providing further insulation. The furniture was upholstered, wide and low to the ground, made more for lounging that anything else.  Unlike most of the Winchester Hall, which looked battered and worn, these rooms appeared fresh, the fabrics clean and well maintained, lush to the touch. Somehow, deep in Dean's austere castle, Castiel had stumbled into some sort of pleasure room.

A pleasure room for whom?  Castiel tried to envision Dean, with his harsh expression and impeccable posture, lounging in this place.  He couldn't picture it.

Another mystery.

Sighing with relief, Castiel sank down on a lush chaise longue, one that was situated close to one of the small fireplaces. His eyes fluttered shut with a sigh.  He ran a hand over the plush velvet of the chair's material.  It was shameful, somehow, this seeking of pleasure, in a place so cold and harsh.  Even in Heaven, where things were warmer, brighter, everything was streamlined, utilitarian. Some part of Castiel had always rebelled against the harshness of it, the lack of comfort.

In  Castiel's mind, he had expected Hell to be more like this.  Decadent.  Sybaritic. Not the strapped down, repressed Hall that Lord Winchester ruled over. The only thing missing from the room were nude, writhing bodies, intent on hedonistic pleasures.

The room was warm and lush and very empty.

It wasn't as comfortable as the huge bed in his chamber in Winchester Hall, especially--Castiel admitted to himself, feeling uncomfortable--when Sam slid under the covers beside him, body warmth deliciously heating Castiel's cold skin. Pleasure, dizzying and corrupting, all the stern lectures of his superiors echoing in Castiel's mind. Still, he felt weak and flu-ish since his illness, joints aching and breath short, body heavier than normal.  His back in particular ached fiercely. It was a small indulgence, to lie back and relax, to let his body go limp, and to feel that in this warm room, he was free to indulge.

 The heat baked into his bones, and that tightness he had held in his shoulders—the pain on his left side, the worry and stress of duty, the discomfort of life in Hell, eased. A tendril of guilt wormed its way through his mind, insisting that he should be working, that he should go back down to the chilly level of the library.  Ignoring his own nagging conscience, Castiel curled up onto the chaise, head against a plush pillow.  He was more tired that he had thought, because before long his eyes drifted closed, the flickering firelight painting the inside of his lids red.  He rested, warm and comfortable.  And dreamed.  
  
_He was falling again, tumbling out of the sky, wings limp and useless, the wind rushing by and screaming in his ears. Strangely, there was none of the terror, the rage, in dreams prior.  His eyes weren't searching, looking for another figure, falling beside him. The sky was filled with swirling black smoke, and Castiel watched dispassionately as he fell, fell, black earth and twisted trees rushing to meet him.  A feather flickered past him on the wind, blackened and burning. His ruined wings would buffer him enough, he knew, that when he hit the ground, he wouldn't die._  
  
Darkness.  
  
No pain. Castiel blinked, eyes flickering open blearily. He didn't know how long he had slept. What had woken him? He remembered pain.  No, he corrected, coming further awake, her remembered dreaming of pain.  Where was he? Oh yes, in the tower, in some forgotten pleasure room.  He was so warm he was sweating slightly, his body cradled by the furniture he reclined on.  He felt revived, his energy restored somewhat by his long nap and the cocooning heat of the room.  He reached out, expecting to touch velvet, and his fingers trailed against satiny bare flesh.  
  
Eyes coming fully open, Castiel struggled up.  He was nearly buried under a curled pile of bodies, perhaps four or five nude figures snuggled close to him, flesh gleaming in the firelight. At his movement, there was almost a collective sigh, and he felt the bodies pressed around him sidle closer, as if seeking comfort from him.  
  
"H-hello?"  
  
He reached out, intending to ease away, and caught the chin of one of the strangers in his hand.  At his touch, the bowed head tilted up and the light from the fire gleamed along a smooth cheek.  Made shadows in the ruined, empty sockets. A tongue flickered out and lapped at his thumb.  
  
It was a very pretty face, Castiel thought numbly as he scrambled back, toppling to the floor, pulse pounding in his throat, a swallowed scream choking his throat. Even without the eyes.  He pushed back, scooting along the floor. The sightless creature followed him down, clambering tentatively to the floor to trail after him.  It was surprisingly graceful, Castiel thought wildly, despite being truncated at the elbows and knees, the amputations giving it a mildly uneven gait.

It tilted its--her, Castiel amended, seeing the curve of breasts--eyeless head, easing forward on her limbs, nearly silent on the rich carpet.  
  
"Stop!" Castiel gasped, raising a shaking hand, as if to ward off the creature slowly advancing on him.  
  
At the word, she stopped, the bowed low, head to the carpet, hips in the air.  Abasing herself, Castiel thought, trembling. He breathed deep, calming. Her posture, her tentative movements, were helping Castiel shake off the shock.  
Her back was a graceful bow, the firelight highlighting twin runnels carved into her skin, trailing across her shoulder blades.  
  
Lines. Lines at her shoulders.  Crude incisions. Castiel knew what he was looking at. An angel, limbs nipped way, eyes burned out, wings excised. A mutilated angel.  
  
Castiel screamed.  
  
The angel before him flinched, but didn't scurry away.  Instead, she bowed lower, spreading her legs, as if offering--Castiel felt sick.  The others--the other angels, they were all angels--tumbled off the settee like puppies, assuming a similar position, heads down, hips up. They were all the same, Castiel could see, legs and arms shortened, eyes taken, wings crudely carved away. Castiel struggled to his feet, mouth wet and open and working soundlessly.  
  
He stumbled forward, reaching out to topple an angel onto its back.  The creature let its limbs go limp, leaving its belly defenseless. The body was male--no, Castiel noted, feeling sick--it had been male.  The genitals had been roughly removed, leaving twisted scar tissue.  Castiel looked at the face. Lean cheeked with a sensual mouth, heavy brows. Not him. _Not him._  
  
Castiel turned, hands reaching out to flip another angel, to grip another slack face between his hands. Female again.  Not him.  He shoved past her, rounding on another angel, eyes seeking. Where? _Where?_ He was panting, thin shrieks coming out of his mouth between every gasping breath.

"Castiel!" Someone shouting his name.  He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder, eyes intent, seeking.

"Dammit, look at me!"

Small hands on his shoulders again, stronger than they had any right to be.  Castiel was wrenched around, twisting to look down at Meg's face. Dark hair and reddened lips and eyes thankfully, thankfully intact.

"Meg."

"Yes."

"How—how did you?" Castiel stopped, feeling foolish.  She had sent him here.  She had suggested it.  She had wanted him to _see_.

There was no guilt in Meg's face. She said simply, "The portrait."

Castiel could well imagine how it looked now.  His anguished eyes and twisted mouth, frozen in oils.

"He's not here," Castiel said stupidly.

"Who?"

Castiel ignored her, turning to face the ruins of what had been his brethren, crouched on the floor like animals.  They were still abasing themselves, faces blank with acceptance.  They would let anyone, Castiel thought with icy shock, do anything they wanted to them.

"Who's not here?" Meg repeated.  There was something in her voice, some…Castiel shook his head.  She had wanted him to see.

"Were you warning me, Meg?" Castiel asked softly. "Is that what happens to me if I fail Michael's task?  If I displease Lord Winchester?"

Unease flickered across Meg's face.

"It's a nice room," Castiel continued. "Nicer than any other in the castle. Would the warmth and the comfort be worth my limbs? My eyes?"

"They aren't—"

"This is his doing, isn't it?  This is Dean's castle after all. _Little angel._   He has a room of them, doesn't he? He's made of my people these twisted playthings?!"

"It isn't what you think! Castiel—"

"I'm going," Castiel snapped, shoving her away and striding forward.  The angels on the floor skittered away from his angry steps.  He felt a pang, leaving them on the floor, defenseless.  He would come back for them, he would come back with Michael's army.  Heaven wouldn't stand for this. If Dean thought he had ever seen war, he was sorely mistaken. A haze of red came down over Castiel's vision.

"Castiel!"

Hands reaching for him.  With a thought and a muttered curse, Castiel reached out with his mind and shoved.  In a flurry of skirts, Meg flew back and slammed into the wall, pinned there by an unseen hand.

"I'm going," Castiel repeated.

Down the stairs and through the main hall, Castiel hurried.  Shoved aside a demon that stepped forward to block his path, threw out a hand to fling back another.  Another blast took care of the heavy metal doors, tossing them open with a clang.  Panting, feeling sick with exertion, Castiel stood in the courtyard.  It was as he remembered the night he arrived.  Sky coal black and heavy, ash under his feet.  The air's bitter tang made his lungs ache.

Gathering up his strength, Castiel turned and ran from Winchester Hall.


	16. Chapter 16

He couldn't run far.  Despite his rage, his fear, his indignation, his body was still weak from sickness.  Complicating his movements was the roughness of the terrain, the rocks stabbing at his feet, the sharp branches of the trees as he dodged around them.  He stuck to the hills, avoiding the road, but staying close to it.  Foolish to get lost in Hell. A small voice inside Castiel's head insisted that it was all foolishness; this was a poorly planned idea, striding out into the darkness with no transport, no food or drink. Dogged, Castiel continued stubbornly on.

Heaven had been a day's ride by coach. It would take much longer on foot, Castiel knew, but he couldn't turn back.  The idea of waiting in the Hall for Dean to arrive back, to see the warmth in Sam's eyes, knowing what was lurking just above them in a luxurious room.  Because Castiel had no doubt that Sam knew, as he knew everything that went on under Dean's roof. That he was, for all purposes, an extension of Dean's hand and Dean's will.

What had they been waiting for?  Had they been grooming him for that moment?  Would Sam's tender smile have been the last thing Castiel would have seen?

Muscles trembling, Castiel climbed a small rise with difficulty and stumbled down the other side, moving with purpose.

The moon rose as Castiel staggered towards a small, craggy boulder and collapsed down, panting.  Black ash puffed up, coating his pants, his sweaty hands.  He wiped unthinking at his cheek, leaving a smear of greasy dirt.  His left shoulder ached and he reached out, rubbed his fingers over one of the sigils that kept his wings bound.  Wings he'd never seen.  He could picture in his mind, as clearly as if he could touch them, the deep scars gouged in that angel's back. His thoughts stuttered in horror.

Castiel was tired, bone tired, and despite the exercise, cold.  He thought again of that warm room, shuddered, and with effort climbed back to his feet and hurried on.

He was traversing a dry creek bed when he heard the first howl.

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/all_the_damned/68396522/13710/13710_original.jpg)

Out of breath, Castiel looked up.  He could see nothing but the dark outlines of the land, the dense darkness of the sky.  A howl split the night again and although he hoped for a more benign creature, perhaps a lone wolf, Castiel knew he was hearing the call of hellhounds.

So be it.  Castiel readied himself, hurrying up the creek bank to take a place on a high ridge that overlooked the dry ashy sand below him.  He put his back to it, facing toward the lower land that stretched before him.  Any hellhound who tried for him would have to approach from below.  It gave Castiel a small advantage, although his heart sank as he stiffened his legs, holding himself tense.

He knew he wouldn't be able to see them coming.

There was a rushing snarl, roaring like a rising tide, coming closer and closer.  A roil of noise, and Castiel's heart sank.  Not one or two, but from the sound of it nearly a dozen.  A pack of hellhounds, hurrying to meet him.

He raised his hands and muttered furiously under his breath.

A few feet out, the noise cut off, as if it had never been.  Castiel wasn’t foolish enough to think the hellhounds had gone.  Instead, he felt a quiet menace, something savage and silent moving swiftly toward him, with violent intent.

A blur of darkness and a yelp and a hellhound was careening off the defense spell Castiel had cast, fur visible in that flash of violet light.  Castiel quickly cast another spell to strike, aiming it at the curl of the hellhound's tail just before it vanished behind its sight shield.  There was an unearthly yelp and the stink of singed fur.

Another hellhound tested Castiel's shield and he aimed another bolt of a spell at the animal, eliciting another anguished shriek.

They came from all sides, pounding against the defensive spell, snarling, and Castiel aimed as best he could, casting sharp curses that stabbed at the hellhounds, snapping fire along their fur.  A couple hit the ground and lay still, but they kept coming, an invisible blur, revealed by each hit to his shield the way that lightning reveals a landscape in a storm.  Castiel trembled, feeling the energy rushing out of him, feeling his strength falter.  He would cast until he could cast no more, then he would hold grimly hold the shield until it splintered. And then. _Then_.

Then they would be on him.

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/all_the_damned/68396522/13991/13991_original.jpg)

Castiel was raising his hand to twist out another vicious spell when he heard a high pitched whistle.  It went on for a long moment, and when it ended, the night was so silent he wondered if he had lost his sense of hearing.  Then the hellhounds dropped their sight shields, revealing—Castiel gagged with terror—a pack of thirty.  They stared at him, eyes flickering in the darkness, smoke rising from their singed fur, before melting away into the night.

Sam came thundering up the ridge on the back of a black horse.  Two hellhounds flanked him.  Bella and Victor, Castiel surmised.

Sam's face was set in a look of fury Castiel had never seen.  His eyes, jet black, like holes in his skull, fire snapping at the centers. He raised his arm, palm out, and Castiel was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of Sam's attack.  It hit Castiel's shield, fraying away what little of it remained. The defensive spell failed at the same time Castiel's legs did, toppling him into the dirt. 

"You little idiot," Sam said coldly.

"Go away, Sam," Castiel replied, heart pounding.  He blinked up at Sam in exhaustion.  Another horse galloped into sight and Castiel could see Dean, also on a black charger.  His face was impassive.

"Get up," Sam ordered.

"I can't," Castiel said tiredly.  It was true.  His legs were trembling too badly to support him.  He closed his eyes, blinking away grit.

Warm hands lifted him and cradled him to a strong body.  The bite of a leather strap under his cheek.  Castiel looked up at Dean, who had scooped Castiel into his arms as easily as lifting a child.

"Just kill me," Castiel whispered.

"You fought hard just moments ago to live," Dean said shortly.  He swung them both up onto his horse.  He looked down at Castiel, gaze penetrating. "You know, for a librarian, your use of battle magic was brutally exquisite."

"Give him to me," Sam demanded.

"When you calm down."

"I'm calm, damn you."

" _Sam_."

Castiel looked at Sam.  The boy's eyes were sparking black fire with his rage, his jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his lean cheek.  Castiel closed his eyes and turned his head away.  He didn't have the energy to fight any more.

"Fine," Sam said tightly.

The journey back to the castle was embarrassingly fast, compared to Castiel's struggles on foot.  They galloped into the courtyard, and Castiel's gut clenched with terror despite his exhaustion. Demons came out to take the horses' reins and Dean dismounted carefully, Castiel still cradled in his arms.  Castiel let out a cry when Sam yanked him away from Dean, dragging him into Winchester Hall, his fingernails biting into Castiel's arm through his clothes.

"Wait!"

"You'll come with me," Sam ordered.

Castiel was pulled through the main hall.  He glimpsed his portrait in passing.  The too young face rendered in Meg's oil paints was smeared with soot and sweat, the clothes filthy and disheveled.  It showed him standing defiant against a backdrop of dark soil, his hands raised in fury.

He tripped on the stairs.  Sam cursed, swung Castiel up over his shoulder, and strode forward.  He was leading them to the top of the tower, back to that terrible room, and Castiel struggled weakly, trying to pull himself out of Sam's grasp.  He felt a hand on his shoulder, stilling his movement.

"Don't," Dean said.  He was plodding behind Sam, as they climbed up and up. "You overbalance him and you both fall down the stairs and break your necks."

"You say that like it would be a tragedy," Castiel whispered, and felt Sam stiffen, his arm tightening around Castiel. They climbed higher.

The room was much as he remembered, although viewed from an upside down position.  It appeared empty.  Sam levered Castiel to his feet and pushed him none too gently into the room.  Castiel felt to his knees on the plush carpet.

"Stay down," Sam bit out and Castiel obeyed.

Chest heaving, Sam stood for a moment, staring down at Castiel.  Dean took a position near the door, his face still carefully blank, not even twisted in its usual expression of cruel sarcasm.  Finally, with a sigh Sam flung himself into a regal looking armchair before the fire. He was quiet, and Castiel felt too tiredly terrified to raise his voice and say something.

Slowly, as if emboldened by the quiet, the lack of movement, the angels crept forward.  They came from under furniture, and behind drapes, moving sleekly on their shortened limbs.  One twined around Sam's bare leg like a cat and Castiel felt his gorge rise.

"What exactly were you planning to do?" The question came from Dean.  Sam's face was turned toward the fire, his mouth a tight line.  One hand shifted down to pet at the angel's soft hair.

"Stop touching him," Castiel snapped.  Fury warred with fear, but he felt that indignant rise.

"Not really a 'him' anymore," Dean said silkily.

"Michael won't stand for this."

"Is that what you were planning to do?" Sam asked in a clipped voice. "Walk all the way to Heaven to tattle to daddy?  Or were you just trying to commit suicide?"

"These are his people. You can't—"

"What makes you think," Dean interrupted, "that Michael wants them back?"

Castiel stared at him.

"Oh, yes, he knows they're here. He's always known."

"You're lying," Castiel whispered.

"These were once some of Michael's best warriors," Dean continued, voice thick with satisfaction. "They fought in the war against Azazel.  Against Lucifer.  And fell.  These are the few that survived."

"No. _No_."

"This was their punishment.  To be carved into a new animal.  A plaything for Azazel.  It's not just what was cut away, little angel.  It's what was remolded. The clay of their minds.  There's not really anyone in there anymore.  Just a mindless pet, trained to obedience, trained to submit and to seek out touch. Voiceless, sightless.  Existing only as a base creature of pleasure. Everything else was burned out of them."

"Who…who did this to them?"

"I did," Dean said simply.

"Dean—"Sam's voice, furious.

"I did most of it," Dean said.  Castiel gulped in shock, bile burning his throat.  He watched Dean's eyes, the glaze of pain that shifted over the green, before Lord Winchester blinked and his face was as impassive as ever.

"You did this?!"

"Dean—" Sam was shifting in his seat.

"We were slaves," Dean said hoarsely. "Before the demon rebellion. Alistair, he was Azazel's right hand.  His torturer.  And I…I was his creature.  Mostly it was for information we cut and stabbed at them, the angels we captured, but there were a few….that Azazel wanted to add to his harem. The pretty ones."

He stared into Castiel's eyes. "Angels like you."

"Stop it!" Sam shouted. He was out of his seat, brushing the angel away, to stand before Castiel. That controlled, silky-toned rage was replaced by the nearly pleading cracked voice of an adolescent.  "He didn't have a choice.  We didn't—"

"I did it," Dean said simply. "I made them.  Every one of them."

"Let me take them home," Castiel said weakly.  His mind was churning.  Dean had always seemed a powerful despot to him, a cruel man closed off and contained, untouchable.  He couldn't picture this agonized slave Dean spoke of, bent to the will of a Fallen Angel, driven to unspeakable cruelty. No choice.

How could Dean have had no choice?

"Michael doesn't want them," Sam said.

"They're victims.  Survivors of a sacrifice they made for the good of Heaven.  They deserve better."

"Tell me, little angel," Dean said, "When you walk the streets of Heaven, how many cripples do you see?  How many angels bent in limb, or without sight, or marred in feature?   Or twisted in the mind? Hm?"

Castiel blinked at him.  He couldn't think.  And it had been a long time since he had walked outside the Archives, on Heaven's orderly streets.  He could remember…he couldn't…

"How many even stooped in age?  Where are the elderly and sick among you?"

"I…I…"

"Michael likes his order.  His perfection.  Heaven's flawless peace. He wouldn't take them back.  He asked me to execute them."

"Why didn’t you?" Castiel asked, mouth dry.

"Maybe I liked playing with them," Dean said, smiling cruelly. "Perhaps I was so proud of my creations I couldn't bear to see them destroyed.  Not when they were so useful.  Unlike Meg, I feel no need to smash apart _my_ art."

"You've never touched them," Castiel blurted, suddenly understanding.

Dean's mouth dropped open, then he turned his head and looked away.

"You never touched them," Castiel repeated, feeling more sure of his intuition. "You came in here but you're standing by the door.  Away from them.  Like you can't stand…can't stand to look at what you were made to do."

"I've touched them plenty," Dean retorted coldly.

"Before.  When ordered.  But not now.  Not since the rebellion.  When Azazel and Alistair were killed. And Lucifer fled. You didn’t kill them because," Castiel barked out a bitter laugh, "you're too soft-hearted."

"You forget yourself," Dean said, eyes cold.

"Why didn't you kill them?"

Dean said nothing.

"Pity," Castiel decided. "Or mercy.  That's why they're still alive. In Hell, where you've both told me, time and again, that there is no place for weakness.  Yet here they are."

Turning on his heel, Dean strode out of the room.  The door slammed behind him with a heavy thud.

"Michael doesn't know they still live," Sam said quietly.  He sank back down in his chair.  An angel came and laid its head upon his lap.

"They know you," Castiel said.

"Be careful in what you're asking," Sam said. "You've crossed a line tonight, Cas."

"I've crossed a line?"

"You hurt _him_."

"I…" Castiel bit his lip.  Truth be told, he hadn't thought that Dean could be hurt.

"We all did things we weren't proud of," Sam said, "when we were slaves.  Things we'd probably do again, just to keep our independence."

"Independence? Sam, how are you free? As Dean's leech, how is that independence?!"

"I said, _be careful_ ," Sam gritted, his teeth clenched.

"Why don’t you—"

"Enough!"

As Sam surged out of his seat, Castiel felt a blast of power, knocking him onto his back.  He lay there, arms and legs pinned by Sam's power. Sam stood over him, black coat flapping around his legs, his eyes as black as the cloth that hugged his lean body.

"There's no place," Sam crooned, crouching beside Castiel.  He reached out and stroked a tangle of hair from Castiel's dirty cheek. "There's no place for anyone in this room but here.  In this Hall.  In Hell.  Under the hospitality of Lord Winchester.  Do you dream of returning to Heaven, Cas?  When you close your eyes at night, is that where you are?"

"I-I dream of burning.  Falling. Sam—"

Sam stretched out one long, brown leg.  Straddled Castiel, pinning his hips to the floor.  There was both lust and disgust in his glossy black eyes.

"Please…please, Sam…"

"If we were who we had once been," Sam continued, voice rough with hunger,"I would just take you here and now.  Take what I want.  That's who I was. Do you see a _child_ now, Cas?  Do you see a boy who needs protecting?"

"Stop it!"

Sam stood abruptly.

"You'll stay in this room," he said, voice furiously cold. "Tend to these creatures.  Feed and water them.  Clean them.  The demon who normally does it will be in to show you how.  Stay the night. See the effort Dean has spent on keeping alive something that should have been discarded.  Flawed, weak abortions. Broken things.  See how he's done what no demon would ever dare do.  Then come morning get on your knees and beg his forgiveness."


	17. Chapter 17

It was like a dream, Castiel thought.  Everything fading away in the first light of morning.  When he came down to breakfast, eyes gritty and body exhausted, both Sam and Dean acted as if nothing had ever happened.  Dean's lip was twisted in its usual cruel smirk and Sam's face bright at the sight of Castiel, as if he was glad to see him.  Castiel bent his knee stiffly and issued a quiet apology, which Lord Winchester accepted with a nod of his head.  Castiel then knelt by Dean's side and was fed his breakfast; before Dean excused him to go to his chamber and sleep.

There were five twisted shells at the top of the tower, five angels broken into mute animals.  Dean's secret. Castiel swallowed around a piece of bread and blinked up at Dean, who was smiling down at him with fond condescension.  None of that pain, that shame, revealed in the mild green of his eyes.

Just a dream.

As if Castiel could close his mind to it and pretend he hadn't seen it.

In his chamber, he bathed and then knelt and prayed on the cold floor, reaching for grace.  The portrait had been moved into the room and stood in the corner.  Between the painting and the mirror, Castiel felt bombarded by the image of himself, and let his eyes slip to the shiny dark floor instead.  Peace and clarity didn't come—never came, Castiel thought with despair—but he stayed on his knees, seeking, praying…

A hand on his shoulder.

"You fell asleep," Sam said, smiling slightly.  He tightened his grip and pulled Castiel to his feet. "You need to rest."

"Yes," Castiel muttered.  He crawled into the bed.  Sighed when he felt Sam settle in beside him. As if everything was the same as it ever was.

"I want to be alone."

"Lord Winchester doesn't want you to be alone," Sam said.

"Please, Sam."

"No."

"Fine." Castiel turned his back to Sam.

"Are you sulking?"

"Sam, why am I here?"

"I thought it didn't matter," Sam said. "Lord Michael speaks and his subjects obey."

"Dean has never accepted any other ambassador of Michael's.  Why me?"

"Ask him."

"I can't talk to him," Castiel said.  He sighed when Sam reached out and carefully began to knead the tender, painful flesh on Castiel's left shoulder.

"Meg said you were looking for someone," Sam said, massaging the pain away from Castiel's back. "In Azazel's harem room.  Who were you looking for?"

"I…I wasn't."

"A friend?"

"I don't know."  Castiel tried to pull on that thread, to remember.  His mind stayed blank.

"You said you dream of falling.  Burning." Sam's fingers dug in sharply, before he seemed to remember himself and gentle his grip. He smoothed a hand over Castiel's aching shoulder blade.

"You are relentless."

"You like that about me."

Castiel did.  He felt helplessly charmed by Sam, always.  Even that brief moment of menace the night before, felt far away.  Sam proving a point, but never a threat.  Even with blood on his teeth and power crackling in his eyes, somehow still someone dear and cherished.

Love, Castiel realized.  He was in love.

"Flying," Castiel blurted out, embarrassed, desperate to cover his reaction. "I've never…our wings are bound when we are children, unless we train for war.  I've never flown.  But I always dream I have.  And that my wings are burning.  I'm falling out of the sky."

"Hm."

"I've never flown."

"But you've fallen before."

"No. I…Samandriel fell.  Out a window."

"Shush, Cas.  You're getting agitated. Just sleep now.  Rest." Sam gathered Castiel into his arms.  It was strange, only because it had ever been Castiel who had held Sam.  Now Castiel felt like the child, turned in Sam's possessive grip.

His eyes were flickering shut when there was a soft thump on the bed, followed by another.  Castiel levered open his tired eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin to see Bela and Victor up on the bed, settling in as if they were house pets, not the muscular killing machines there were.

"Sam—"

"I'd never let anything happen to you," Sam said, stroking Castiel's hair. "Plus, you can take care of yourself.  The way you deflected their attacks and struck out at them, it was impressive."

"D-did you send them after me?"

"Of course.  They're mine. Better we find you first…before any other force in Hell. You killed two of them." A chill in Sam's voice.

"Sam, I—"

"Don't. Survival of the fittest, remember.  They'll only respect you for it.  Victor and Bela will guard you with their lives."

"Why am I so important to you?"

"Why did you care for me that first night?" Sam asked. 

"I-I don't know."

"Questions without answers."

"Mysteries," Castiel agreed, then yawned. Despite the hounds, the turmoil, the secrets, his body was succumbing to exhaustion.

"Sleep, Castiel.  Maybe you'll dream of something different."

"Something nicer?"

"There are no good dreams in Hell," Sam said.  His body was pleasantly warm and Castiel snuggled close, slipping into sleep.

He dreamed.

_A stone room and a rack.  His body strapped down naked, charred wings spread out and clamped.  Pain, pain wracking his body, so intense it brought tears to his eyes.  And yet, a detachment.  It was all happening to his body.  His mind, his heart, had already been damaged beyond repair._

_Dean was standing before him.  Heavy collar on his neck, orange rust on the iron.  His eyes were heavy and blank, his mouth in its usual cruel twist._

_"Begin," said a voice._

_Shadow of a man standing behind Dean.  Sharp teeth and a face like a skull, grinning with sadistic pleasure. A name came to Castiel's mind, a bit of information flittering into his head and then back out again.  The demon Alistair._

_Dean stepped forward.  Even as Castiel's body tensed for the pain, there was no fear.  After the fall and the despair, only blankness.  He watched Dean approach, pliers in one hand, other coming to rest on one of Castiel's wings._

_Dean smiled._

Castiel jerked awake with a quiet gasp. He was in bed, Sam a warm weight at his back, the boy snoring slightly.  Bela was curled across their legs, body cupped by the bulk of Victor.

Dean was standing beside the bed, watching Castiel.

"Shush."

"I'm not the one who was moaning," Dean said softly.  His eyes flickered to Sam. "He's needed.  Abbadon rallies on the border."

"He needs rest."

"I'm surprised he's managed to sleep," Dean replied. "The blood…it makes him soar.  Doesn't think to eat, to sleep.  He can command legions, when he's like this."

"A few more hours of rest then."

"He's not a child, Castiel," Dean said and Castiel jerked in surprise at the use of his name. Dean chuckled quietly. "I thought I knew jealousy, watching how easily you let him into your heart.  Into your bed."

"If you think I had much of a choice—"

"But it's worse for him.  To be given your affection yet held at arm's length. Treated like an infant.  He's not as young as you think he is.  And he was never innocent. You're playing with fire, little angel."

"I'm not for him," Castiel insisted. "And I'll be called home…soon."

Dean snorted. "Is that what you think? Hell needs Heaven's liaison.  If you're waiting for someone more suitable to replace you, you'll be waiting a long time.  Your life is here now."

"No."

"We'll see what that toad Zachariah says," Dean replied. "He comes to give inspection in a fortnight."

"What? Why? What will he say?"

Dean's eyes flickered over Castiel.

"That I'm unsuitable," Castiel murmured quietly.

"You're a terrible diplomat," Dean said, smiling.  He reached out a hand as if to stroke Castiel's hair, but pulled it back at Castiel's flinch.  He pressed his rejected hand to his own mouth. "But there's no one I'd rather have for the job."

"Why? I'm not…what am I doing here?"

"Living up to your potential," Dean replied. "I've observed you at work.  You don't smile often, little angel.  You smile at Sam, but it's still sad. Conflicted.  But when your magic flows…then, you look like you're at peace.  At home.  You fly, Castiel. The way you untwist those books…if you had been a demon, Alistair might have been able to teach you to twist and untwist bodies."

Castiel hissed, drawn in by the compliment and then shocked by Dean's casual mention of torture. "I would never!"

"You would have had no choice."

"I could have died."

"Alistair always had a talent for holding death up and away, over a man's head," Dean said, shrugging.

"Did you try to escape him that way," Castiel asked, wanting more information, a glimpse into how it had been, for Sam and for Dean, "through death?"

"Trying to paint me in a more noble light?" Dean chuckled softly.  His eyes flickered to Sam again. "You need the fairy tale, Castiel.  Everyone and everything clean and bright and heroic.  Real life isn't like that. There are no heroes here."

"Sam said…I hurt you."

"No heroes, just some hero worship," Dean muttered, smirking slightly.

"You haven’t touched them since.  Hurt them. You didn't dispose of them. You're trying…" Castiel flushed.

"Are you feeling guilty?"

"I don't know what to feel."

Dean sighed. "You think too much, little angel.  What's done is done."

"Just forget it?"

Something sly crept into Dean's tone. "We can make a deal, you and I, if you want to wash away some of your needless guilt. Your sudden concern for my feelings."

"What do you want?" Castiel asked reluctantly.

"Something simple." Dean reached out, dragged a rough finger slowly along the pulse point at Castiel's wrist, making him gasp.  Green eyes met blue, then Dean smiled, twisting his fingers, digging his nails in.  A pinch.  A hiss of sound from Castiel at that minor pain.

"Any sound you might make, in pleasure or in pain.  I want them.  For me and only me."

"I don’t understand…"

Dean smiled. "Indulge me.  I want to be the only one to cause such noises from your lips."

Castiel couldn't see how it could hurt. He nodded.  Dean leaned in and kissed him, his mouth lingering this time, sweeter, more intimate.

Castiel pulled away first. He couldn't help but primly say, "You presume too much if you think I will be making any noise for you at all."

"We'll see," Dean said.

He reached over Castiel and touched Sam's shoulder lightly.  After a few shakes, Sam's eyes opened, and he was pushing back the covers, rounding the bed to stand by Dean's side.  He knuckled sleep out of his eyes, but seemed alert enough.

"Now?" he asked, voice thick with excitement.

"Now," Dean said, shoving at the fabric away from his wrist.  Eagerly, Sam fell to his knees.

"Don't," Castiel blurted, the word out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"He needs it," Dean said calmly, "unless you want him to die today, killed on the battlefield.  Or maybe, maybe you're offering your own blood in exchange?"

Castiel bit his lip, rubbing at his own wrist.

"You would!" Dean laughed. "No, little angel.  He has enough of you already."

"Do you have to do it here?" Castiel asked weakly.

"Yes," Dean said.  Sam bit down on Dean's wrist, breaking his way through the skin using only his teeth, gnawing messily. Despite the sharp pain, Dean didn't flinch, his smirk unwavering.

"You need to see," Dean continued, as Sam slurped hard, soft noises rising in the room. "I told you before: there are no heroes here."

 


	18. Chapter 18

The war continued, and Castiel stayed in Winchester Hall alone.  He rested, he dined with Meg, he repaired books, he tended to the angels on occasion. He slept fitfully in the night, sometimes alone, rarely with Sam at his side.  He thought about what Dean had said, that war never ended in Hell.  He worried—mostly for Sam, but also for Dean.  As powerful as they both seemed, it only took a moment, and opportunity, for them to be struck down. War continued, and he saw them less and less as the days slipped by. He missed the touch, the affection.  His skin hungered for it, as it had always hungered for closeness, and he pushed the feeling aside with effort.

He still felt tired too often.  His body ached and everything seemed to taste of ash.  His hand had healed and looked the same as it ever had, but Castiel wondered.  Had he been changed by Hell? Tainted by the poison that had flowed in his veins?  He wasn't the Castiel that had first arrived.

When he returned to Heaven, if he returned to Heaven, how much would this change remain?

That Meg stayed, that she still occupied the Hall, had initially been a mystery to Castiel.  Why was she not being punished for revealing Dean's secret?  When he asked, Meg had smiled her sharp cat's smile and had simply said, "Nothing happens in Winchester Hall without Lord Winchester knowing."

So Dean had wanted him to see the angels, had wanted him to know?

It hurt Castiel's head, trying to parse out all the motives behind everyone's actions.  Finally, he let it be.  Fell back into duty, into unquestioning obedience.  He worked and he waited and he ate food at the table.

He tried not to miss taking it from Dean's hand.

Up in the library, Castiel worked carefully on a damaged book.  There was a vicious spell weaved among the pages, as delicately twisted as a sliver chain, and Castiel picked it apart carefully, blocking any malicious rebound of magic.  Meg stood, dressed in her usual profusion of black petticoats, hands clasped behind her back, studying the ruined murals.  She hummed tunelessly under her breath.

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/all_the_damned/68396522/14317/14317_original.jpg)

"Why don't you paint over it?" Castiel asked. "Make something new?"

"I could do that," Meg replied agreeably, "but I won't."

"Why not?"

"I despise the idea of forgetting," Meg answered.  She turned and studied him. "People like to forget.  To pretend that horrible things never happened.  They age and the new generation is born and there's nothing to look to.  No evidence of the crime.  Some things should leave scars."

Castiel's hand went unbidden to the back of his skull.  The sigil, placed there, that erased part of his mind.  He could tell by the expression on Meg's face that she knew, that she had been told.  It was easy to forget he was surrounded by demons, when they went about their business and ignored him.  Eyes everywhere, watching his every move.

"So restore it," Castiel said unsteadily. "Then it wouldn't be forgotten."

Meg smiled. "I don't think I'd be allowed to stay in Winchester Hall if I did that."

"Is…what is the mural of…is it of Dean?"

Meg stepped closer.  She looked vulnerable.  One hand reached up, brushed against Castiel's temple. "I could show you."

"Mess with my mind, you mean."

"Open mine to yours.  More dangerous for me, than for you.  To give you access…"

"Share your thoughts with me?" Castiel asked. "Why would you?"

"I think it's important that you see."

"You're not just an artist," Castiel said slowly, coming to a realization. "You're a historian."

"Every terrible thing done in Hell, I've documented," Meg said.  She tapped her temple. "If not on the walls, or on paper, I've got it up here. A record of everything people would like to forget.  I have it all."

"And you're giving it all to me?" Castiel asked skeptically.

"Just the mural.  Just this room.  A bargain between us."

"What am I supposed to give you in return?"

"You're giving to me," Meg said fiercely. "You're taking a burden from me.  I will owe you."

"A bargain," Castiel said quietly.

"Do you agree?"

Of course he did.  He wanted to see, wanted to know.  But he was so tired, of stepping into quicksand, unable to see the trap before it sprung around him. 

If only the demons around him would be forthright and honest.

"I want you to stop toying with me," Castiel said. "No lies, no double meanings.  I want total honesty from you.  That's my bargain."

"No," Meg said.

"Of course," Castiel said, sighing with quiet frustration.  He turned from her and directed his attention back to the yellowed page of the book he was repairing.  He narrowed his eyes and gathered his will as he bent to unkink another chain in the spell.

And was interrupted by a flash of gold, dangling from a chain before his eyes.

Meg was swinging a locket playfully in front of his face.

"What is that?"

"My end of the bargain," Meg said.  She used a sharp red-black fingernail to pry the locket apart.  Two miniature paintings sparkled inside, paint looking rich and fresh, apparently spelled to appear brand-new.

Two portraits. One of Sam and one of Dean.

"Wh-where did you get this?"

"I thought you might miss them.  Something to look at, to help lull you to sleep, during your lonely nights."

Castiel looked up at her sharply. Meg smiled innocently, reached for his hand and draped the chain across Castiel's palm.

He looked closely at the paintings.  Both demons, looking the exact age they were now, as if it had been painted yesterday.  Castiel knew they were both in the thick of battle, but the faces in the pictures weren’t smeared with soot or blood.  There was no expression of agony or concentration on their brows.  Instead, they smiled gently.  A smile that Castiel had never seen graced Dean's handsome face.

"They aren't…"

"I didn't paint it," Meg said. "It's not that type of painting, anyway.  It ages with them.  The originals were painted when they were mere infants."

Castiel blinked at her.

"It belonged to their mother."

" _Their_ mother?"

"They're brothers.  Sam and Dean.  You didn’t know that?"

"No," Castiel whispered. _Brothers_.  He saw, immediately, Samandriel's gentle face.  The short time they had had together. Tried to reconcile the protectiveness, the love he felt for Samandriel, his little brother, with the coldness and cruelty Dean exhibited to his. The way Sam served Dean's will, in a way Castiel felt no family member ever should.

He couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"If it belonged to their mother then it's not yours to give," Castiel said stiffly.  It was difficult, but he made himself close the clasp and offer it back to Meg.

She didn't take it back.

"She's dead," Meg said bluntly. "I didn’t steal it, if that's what you're implying.  I think it's a fair trade.  Take it, Castiel."

"Would it hurt them…" Castiel's voice trailed away.  Foolish, to show how much he cared.

Meg tsked. "Like I said before, I'm not interested in being turned out.  I wouldn't do anything against my own interests.  Take the necklace, Castiel."

Numbly, he did.  He wanted to fasten it around his neck, to have some…mark of them both, on his person, but he refrained.  Instead he tucked it into a pocket.  Meg was smiling again, tongue flicking out to wet her red lips, and Castiel flushed when he remembered how they would seal the bargain.

"Go ahead," Castiel said, turning to face her.

"You still blush.  It's charming. I want _you_ to kiss _me_."

"What's the difference?"

"Indulge me," Meg said, flipping a dark lock of hair from her cheek.  She stepped forward, pressed her breasts to Castiel's chest. "Kiss me."

Her hair was very soft under his fingers, the nape of her neck warm.  Castiel leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers, felt her tongue flicker out to dance inside his mouth.  With surprise he felt that warm building sensation, the one he'd felt with Dean, before it fractured and fell away, leading to nothing.

Meg pressed her hips against the front of Castiel's trousers and sighed with disappointment.

"A shame," she said, pulling away, but her brown eyes were dancing with laughter.

"Demons are obsessed with sex," Castiel said dryly.

"We have a healthy appetite for it," Meg said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of.  Does Michael worry that distraction and corruption will turn his subjects' eyes away from his glory?"

 _Distraction.  Corruption_. Castiel flushed again. He didn't need sex to be tempted.  Already, he thought of Sam, and then Dean, before duty, before his prayers. Before Michael.

Tainted, he thought again.  Changed and marked by Hell.

"Here," Meg said, as if she could see his thoughts.  She reached up and pressed her small fingers to Castiel's temple. "Let me show you my murals."

It was a kind distraction. Castiel closed his eyes.  He felt a twist in reality, some opening of a door, and then it was as if Meg had taken his hand and led him into another time.  They were walking into the library, but not as it stood now.

Castiel opened his eyes and _saw_.

_The room's floor was heaped with soft rugs.  It was warm, as warm, Castiel thought, as the pleasure room upstairs.  The shelves were full of books, clean and bright and pristine.  As bright as the undamaged mural on the walls.  The angle was different, and Castiel realized that he was seeing as Meg saw, from a shorter height.  He narrowed his eyes to study the murals on the walls…_

_Inside Meg's mind, Castiel's gut heaved._

_Twisted images.  Demons and Angels, being tortured.  Tongues pulled tight with pliers, rods piercing flesh.  Tears and blood lovingly rendered.  A tableau of a demon reaching its fingers into a fragile mind.  A scream silently painted in rich oils._

_It's was grotesquely beautiful._

_The desk in the middle of the room was covered with papers, with ink pots, and Castiel could see an angel—Azazel, Meg's mind supplied—writing idly, occasionally bringing the pen up to his lips in thoughtful contemplation.  There was a smear of black ink on his bottom lip.  He wore a soft silk robe.  Behind him, his wings stretched out, ivory and cream, the feathers glossy with health, resting on the carpet like a regal robe.  He stretched out a leg and tapped one bare foot…_

_…against the naked flank of a body bound and gagged beneath the table._

_A boy, coltish and lean limbed, with tear-wet sloe eyes and flyaway brown hair.  Sam.  A slightly younger Sam, body chained with iron, an iron bridle in his mouth.  Lying still and small under Azazel's foot._

_"Hush now, Sam," Azazel said fondly, tapping his foot, although Sam hadn't moved or made a sound. "Let me finish and I'll get to you in a minute."_

Castiel screamed.

He wrenched his way out of Meg's mind.  He heard her stumble, curse, and he shoved away from the table.  Blinking wet eyes, Castiel looked up at the flaking paint.  If he squinted, he could see each scene of torture, of depravity.  Then the illusion flickered away and he was just looking at ruin.

"You painted _that_."

"I did.  I always did as I was told, for the most part. Still do."

Castiel's mouth quirked at that statement.  Then he said somberly, "I'm not sure Sam would be happy that you showed me that."

"Like I said, nothing happens in this castle without Lord Winchester's knowledge. And Sam isn't ashamed of who he is."

"Was."

"Is," Meg corrected.  She sighed. "You romanticize him. He isn't a victim."

"What I saw?! What I know?! From Azazel's hand to Dean's.  How is he not a victim?!"

"He's suffered," Meg agreed.  She turned away, stepped up to the mural.  Scratched away a flake of paint with one nail. "Most of us have.  But he's content where he is.  That's the only way to truly find peace.  Acceptance."

"I'm going," Castiel said unsteadily, sick of her company, of life in Hell.  He realized he didn’t know where he meant.  Down into the cold hall?  Into his chamber, unable to look at himself? Out into the night? He felt as chained as Sam had been in that memory.

He left the library, left Meg and the painful truth she kept uncovering, like old paint being scraped away.  He climbed the steps to the pleasure room.  Inside, the warm heat was a comfort and Castiel sank down on a pile of cushions before the fireplace.

In only a few short moments he was surrounded by angels.

The horror would never go away, but Castiel was no longer shocked by their appearance.  He petted the soft head of the one nearest him, got a soft, muffled purr in thanks.  No longer an angel but instead something lesser, innocent.  More vulnerable than a child.  More simple-minded than a house pet.

They cuddled close to him and Castiel tumbled into a light, troubled doze.

When he awoke, it was supper time.  He helped the demon that arrived to care for the angels, then stumbled downstairs.

Sam was standing before the fire, his hellhounds at his side.  Dean sat at his place at the table.

Castiel was instantly more alert.  He felt his eyes flicker over them, looking for injury.  But they both looked well, if a little grimy.  Castiel felt a swelling in his chest, a warmth.  Happy.  He was happy to see them safe and sound.

Sam turned from the fire and pinned Castiel under a beetle-black gaze.

It was unnerving, and Castiel stumbled, his boot catching on the stones of the floor.  He felt his gaze dart away, unable to meet the intensity of Sam's eyes.  He looked to Dean, that impassive face.  Dean was frowning slightly, but not at him.  It was ridiculous, but Castiel felt himself hurry towards Dean, as if seeking protection.

Ridiculous.  This was Sam, the mischievous boy he knew.  Sam wouldn't hurt him.

Dropping to his knees, Castiel intently studied the floor.

He felt more than heard Sam approach the table, then the boy was looming over him, so close he could smell the scent of fire and blood on Sam's borrowed coat.  The tension was unbearable.  He felt a hand brush his forehead, then fist painfully in his hair.

Head tilted, Castiel's watering eyes met the unfathomable blackness of Sam's own.

Dean made a sharp, clicking sound with his teeth, and as if a spell was broken, Sam released his grip and slinked away.  He sat down at the table and began to eat, his eyes still on Castiel.  It reminded Castiel of nothing so much as being stalked by a hellhound.

Dean said nothing.  He began to feed Castiel, small bites offered by hand, his fingers gentle on Castiel's lips. After a few bites, Castiel reached up, gently pushed away Dean's hand. Sam was watching them, teeth bared in a snarl, the strain in the room ratcheting up, and up. Each of Dean's touches seemed to make it worse.

Dean wiped his lips with a napkin.  He said mildly, "No more blood, Sam."

"No!" Sam hissed.

"You're not yourself," Dean continued. "And each day you drink makes it that much worse."

"You think it's your decision?!"

"My leech forgets himself," Dean said coldly. "That is what you still are, aren’t you Sam?"

"Abbadon still threatens the border," Sam muttered evasively, shifting in his seat. "You need me."

"I'll call in a favor," Dean replied, smiling.  He put his hand on Castiel's head.  Sam's eyes followed the movement. "We can rout her without you. You've done enough."

"Fine," Sam growled.

"Leave us," Dean commanded.

"What?"

"Oh, I know you don’t want to," Dean said, still smiling that infuriating smile. He carded his hand through Castiel's dark curls. "I know why.  But is it really worth everything you've worked for?"

With a muffled curse, Sam stood, grabbed his plate, and stalked from the room.

"Stay," Dean said when Castiel made to rise.  He pushed him back down to his knees. "Don't follow him.  You really don’t have any sense, do you?"

"He'll be hurting," Castiel replied, feeling that old stubbornness well up, as it always did when interacting with Dean. He could see Sam again, writhing in pain before the fire. Sam, young and vulnerable, naked and chained in iron.  Dean staring down at him, face hard and without compassion.

Brothers.

"In a day or so, yes.  You can play nursemaid then.  For now, be sensible and leave him alone. I'm sure you could forgive him if he hurt you.  I'm not sure he would forgive himself."

Castiel bit his lip.  They sat quietly for a moment.  Then Dean sighed gustily and extended his hand again, pressing food to Castiel's mouth.

"Eat," Dean ordered quietly.

"The blood….makes him savage?" Castiel asked, after chewing and swallowing.

"Power corrupts, little angel," Dean replied. "It's why magic fueled by blood drinking is forbidden in Heaven.  It's dangerous. A necessary evil in Hell."

"He's your brother," Castiel said unthinking, recrimination in his voice. He turned his head away from another bite.  He had no appetite.

"Meg tells a good tale," Dean replied, stretching his long, leather-clad legs.  His hand continued to pet at Castiel's hair, sending pleasurable chills down Castiel's back. "Why should it mean anything other than we shared the same sire? Are from the same hearty stock? Why be so sentimental about it?"

 _Because he's alive and he's here,_ Castiel thought _. Because you have your brother, your family, as I will never have mine again_.  He kept silent.  He didn't want his yearning, his hurt, to be sneered at.

"Zachariah comes soon," Castiel said, changing the subject.

"Hm," Dean murmured, sounding uninterested. "He may delay if Abbadon's forces have not been driven back.  Would you like that?  A few more days to polish your diplomacy?" The words were as harsh and biting as Dean's touch was gentle.

"You can't make me feel ashamed," Castiel retorted, shifting his head from under Dean's stroking hand. "We both know I'm not made for this position.  I can't ever seem to hold my temper around you. It's fine.  My aptitude is not in tactfulness."

"All-seeing Michael made a mistake?"

"He sent me, but you accepted me for the job.  If anything, the mistake was yours."

Dean laughed. "Touché, little angel."

After the meal, Castiel retired to his room.  He was surprised and unnerved when Dean followed him up, settling into the chair before the fire.

"I would be alone," Castiel muttered, but it wasn't true.  As much as Dean's presence discomfited him, he had found that unlike in Heaven, he more often than not sought out company in Hell.

"Not a good idea. Not tonight."

"Are you…guarding me?" Castiel almost laughed, until he saw Sam in his mind's eye again, the savage expression on his young face, the possessive glare in his blackened eyes.

"Perceptive angel." Dean nodded.

Castiel frowned, then turned his back to Dean.  He went through his ablutions, overly aware of Dean's scrutiny.  There was a moment of self-consciousness when he knelt on the floor to pray, but he ignored Dean's quiet snort of derision and closed his eyes, templing his hands beneath his chin.

"Does that even work?" Dean asked after a moment, interrupting Castiel's attempt at reverie.

"You mean if you interrupt me while I'm trying to do it?"

Dean chuckled. "Even so.  The expression on your face, it looks strained, painful.  Not peaceful."

"No," Castiel said sighing. He made to rise and then stayed on his knees when Dean clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I can't find peace. Grace.  I pray and I feel nothing." Unsaid, the fact that Castiel had felt this way long before he'd come to Hell.

"How does it work, anyway? This narcissistic fawning that Michael demands?"

"Prayers to Michael for leading us to peace, order!" Castiel snapped. "It isn't about ego!"

"Tens of thousands of angels, all on their knees at the same time, thinking about how great Michael is? Giant communal masturbation at regularly proscribed intervals—"

"You don't have to understand," Castiel said tightly. "I understand that you have no temples dedicated to _you_. Yet."

Dean frowned.  He crossed one leg over the other, boot-clad foot swinging gently.  The firelight painted him in gold, and Castiel breath caught, as it always did, looking at Dean's beauty.

"Do you think that's what I want?" Dean asked finally.

"I don't know," Castiel said. "I've been watching.  You run your kingdom more like a bureaucrat's office. It's…efficient. Fair, I would say.  Very little pomp and circumstance."

"No need for rituals here," Dean said agreeably and Castiel rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that's why you have me on my knees three times a day."

"That's not political.  That's personal." Heat in Dean's eyes.

"I…"

"It's easier to think that I'm humiliating Michael, isn't it? A bit harder to think I'm doing it for my own pleasure."

"Whatever you want from me…I'm sure you can't have it."

"Interesting phrasing," Dean said, tapping a finger against his chin. "And who gets to decide that? Michael?"

Castiel flushed, saying nothing.  Michael would never order him to…be Dean's in that way.  But if he did?

Obedience.

"Good night," Castiel said roughly, climbing to his feet.  He rounded the bed and lay down on the far side.  The portrait was mocking him, showing a baby-faced Castiel with cheeks red with temper.  He turned his face away from it.

Only when he felt Dean's attention shift towards the fire, did Castiel work the locket out from under his pillow, where he had secreted it earlier. He quietly pulled it open, tucking it into his hand where the metal could warm to his body.

He fell asleep looking at Sam's face.


	19. Chapter 19

"May I please have it back," Castiel said, even though he suspected his words would be useless. After all, he had tried before.

Sam shook his head playfully, smiling one of his rarer, wide smiles.  They were alone in Castiel's suite of rooms, Castiel awake early as was his habit, and Sam perhaps not yet having slept.  The boy seemed to have no regular schedule, curling up whenever and wherever he pleased, like a feral cat.  All too often Castiel had opened his eyes in the early dawn to find Sam's face kissing close, the boy either bedding down companionably with Castiel—causing a sharp little pang in his heart—or wide awake, watching over Castiel's troubled sleep. 

Sam had recovered from his blood addiction, nursed once again by Castiel's hand, and had resumed his usual sunny disposition. Unaware of the war, Castiel knew enough that Abbadon had retreated, and both Sam and Dean were once again in at Winchester Hall, instead of away in the thick of the fighting.

"Just for today," Castiel tried again. "I need my jacket. You can have it back after Lord Zachariah goes home."

Sam shook his head again.

 "We had a bargain, it's mine," he said firmly, his voice low for someone so young-faced.

Castiel stopped arguing.  It was the law of the land, inviolate, and after several months in Hell Castiel had become more adept at navigating this new culture. Castiel had given his jacket to Sam.  In exchange, Sam had traded his service as companion and guide in this country so darkly strange and cruel to Castiel's eyes.  It was an oath more binding than any other and unbreakable.

If only Castiel had known that when he first arrived.

"Lord Zachariah will be displeased," Castiel complained half-heartedly.

"It is a very good jacket," Sam said, smoothing one hand down the thick, black fabric.  It was Castiel's formal overcoat, the black denoting his role as ambassador to the Court of Winchester, the dark blue piping on the shoulders indicating his rank and role within  Heaven.  It was mean to be worn buttoned from Castiel's chin to his knees, the cuffs of the garment clasping each of his forearms tightly with another row of tiny, black buttons. Rigid and orderly, like Heaven itself.

Sam wore it open to the waist, the boy's lean, tan chest peeking out scandalously from behind the somber fabric.  He kept the sleeves unbuttoned and flapping around his elbows like dark wings.  Castiel had given up on trying to set the garment right. The boy wore it exactly as Castiel had first given it to him.

Giving up on his attempt to regain his jacket, Castiel drifted over to the thick leaded glass of the window and looked down.  The early morning was misty gray over the sere landscape, the stunted trees and dark sandy soil of the Realm of Hell indistinct under their cover of fog.  Zachariah's coach would not be visible until it was nearly against the first defensive barrier of the keep.  Sometimes Castiel could swear the very air was thicker here, like smoke, thickening in his lungs and making breathing difficult, tainting him on the inside in some way.

"It's early," Sam said, creeping up behind Castiel on silent feet.  He hooked his chin onto Castiel's shoulder, leaning in, and Castiel sighed at the warm contact, whereas only a few short weeks before he would have made himself flinch away. "He won't be here for hours.  Don't all Lords like to sleep in? Why are you worrying?"

"It is my first, official post," Castiel answered gravely.  Sam playfully dug his chin in a bit, the floppy tangle of his chestnut hair tickling Castiel's cheek. "I want them to know I have done my utmost, that I have tried to—"

"Doesn't matter," Sam interrupted.

"You think I'm unfit for this position?" Castiel asked, voicing his own fears.  He had done his best to hide his unease, his fumbling ignorance of Hell, the way he was inelegant with words and polite diplomacy. His verbal sparring matches with Dean, Lord Winchester, the man he was meant to be working with. 

"Doesn't matter," Sam repeated again, but gentler. "Dean will say whatever he wants about you as best suits his interests and Zachariah will keep you on or send you away depending on what best suits him.  So why worry?"

"I guess it's simpler for a demon," Castiel answered dryly. He was feeling a bit embarrassed that he cared so much what Sam thought.  Sam—not fully grown, Dean's leech, the lowest of his household.  Castiel silently chided himself for letting nerves guide his reaction.

"Much more so than for an angel," Sam agreed.  His hands crept up and his thumbs pressed against the wards on Castiel's back that kept Castiel's wings bound and incorporeal.  Castiel gently shrugged him off, shaking his shoulders to get rid of the itchy, ticklish feeling of being touched there, that part of his body that had never been his own.

"I would pray," Castiel said, moving away from Sam.  His stomach roiled—illness or nerves, he wasn't sure—and his heart was pounding a bit.  He needed to collect himself.

"So pray," Sam replied, flopping gracelessly down on the bed.  It was ornate, the mattress high, the counterpane rich brocade, dark red drapes tied back.  Four posts of dark wood rose up around the bed like the bars of the cage, complicated runes carved into the twisted wood.  It made Castiel's head ache to look at them too long.

"I would have privacy," Castiel tried, although he already knew it was useless.  Despite swearing himself to Castiel's 'service', Sam seemed to obey no orders and Castiel felt uncomfortable trying to command him.  The boy would stay or go as it pleased him.  As if he could read Castiel's thoughts, Sam smiled slyly and Castiel's heart panged a bit.  The boy looked so much like…

No.  They didn't look alike at all.

Sighing, Castiel dropped to his knees.  All the floors in the keep were glossy obsidian, kept polished to a shine no doubt by the scurrying demon menials Castiel sometimes saw about the keep.  He could see his own face reflected in the mirror of the floor, distorted, the eyes looking big and haunted, the cheeks too pale.  The usual mellow blue of his eyes appearing instead slick and black, like an insect's. Castiel hurriedly shut his eyes and tried to tune out the ache in his stomach, the hardness of the floor under his knees, the tightness in his chest.  He closed himself off to Sam's obvious gaze, his distracting presence.  He reached for grace…

Peace didn't come and Castiel knew he couldn't blame the Hall or Hell, as much as he'd like to.  He couldn't remember when it had happened—when he reached out for peace and surety and found only disappointing silence.  It had been a long time since he had felt in harmony with his faith.  Every morning and evening he fell to his knees—on the harsh wood planks of his austere researcher's cell back in the Archivist's Hall in Heaven and now here on much more luxurious floors, but still unforgiving—and felt nothing.

Still, Sam was watching.  Castiel closed his eyes, slowed his breath, and murmured the words under his breath.  He stayed on his knees until the pain drifted away to numbness and his nervous breathing slowed.  There was something, at least, to the monotonous rumble of the familiar prayer.  He felt himself slipping quietly into his own mind.  It wasn't peace, but instead, a welcome numbness. _Graced with light and order…_

"Cas."  A sharp scrape at the nape of his neck, just below the tangle of this dark curls.  Castiel jerked his mind back to the present.  Sam was standing beside him, hand on the back of Castiel's neck, young face worried.

"What is it?"

"It's been an hour.  We'll be expected downstairs."

An _hour_? Castiel shifted on his knees, felt the burning stab of pain that signaled a long time at prayer.  He groaned and made to rise gracelessly, but Sam pushed down with his hand, keeping Castiel  on his knees.

Castiel frowned. " _Sam_."

"Let me help you," Sam said, smiling unrepentantly and he offered a hand, levering Castiel to his feet.  There was a smear of red under one of Sam's thumbnails and as Castiel stared Sam raised his hand to his mouth, sucking the finger clean.

"You'll get in trouble," Castiel muttered.

"And you'll save me again," Sam replied simply. "That's why you're here."

"That's _not_ why I'm here," Castiel said sharply, his voice rising with temper.

Sam shrugged, as immune to Castiel's flares of anger as he was to Castiel's measured reasoning and his helpless pleading. "Then stop doing it.  Come on, it's time for breakfast."

The halls of the keep were narrow, the spiral twists of stairs leading down tight and dark.  Castiel kept a hand to the wall, although the stone felt sooty under his palm.  Just ahead of him, partially blocking out the light, Sam bounded down the steps, whistling tunelessly.

Back in Heaven, in the Archivist's Hall, Castiel had dined at a long, low table, surrounded by his fellow researchers, his Angel brothers and sisters.  Bright light and low, cheerful voices, surrounding Castiel in an aura of good feeling.

Dean Winchester's dining hall was bright, but only because one wall had been blasted out, open to air and to the spill of morning sun.  The room was drafty, chilled.  At the head of the large table that dominated the space, sat Dean.  The table was big enough for a score of men but as always was set for two.  Castiel's sensitive stomach turned over at this familiar sight, this thrice daily indignity.

Sam approached Dean and prostrated himself on the floor at his master's feet, his purloined coat spread out behind on the floor like a spill of dark ink.  Castiel approached at a distance more suitable to the Ambassador of Heaven, and sketched a low bow.  He waited, eyes on Dean, watching for the subtle nod that meant he could straight up, obeisance made and noted.

But Dean didn't seem to be in an easy mood.  He regarded Castiel intently, his eyes fierce but thankfully still a delicate shade of green, not the darker cast of a demon angered. Castiel met Dean's eyes, before his gaze skittered away, resting instead on Dean's lush mouth, unnerved at the intense scrutiny.

"You look unwell," Dean said and Castiel flushed.

"I am fine."

"Like death warmed over," Dean continued.  He nudged Sam's shoulder with the tip of his boot. "Up, leech."

Sam rose gracefully to his feet, bowing once more.  He eyed the second place setting—heaped with food still strange to Castiel's palate—and then looked at Castiel.

"Go ahead, Sam," Castiel said and Sam smiled brightly and sat down at the table, digging into the meal.

"A waste," Dean said, but he didn't sound upset.

"Not a waste to give food to a growing boy," Castiel responded quietly.

"A leech, not a boy.  A leech that hasn't completely proved his usefulness," Dean corrected him.

"A leech who's served in battle," Castiel replied sharply.  The boy had fought in defense of Hell.

Dean smirked. "Come here, little angel."

It was an old argument by now and Castiel let it drop. He had a better understanding of what Sam was and his role in Dean's household now, but still, when he looked at Sam he only saw an innocent, mostly-grown boy. Castiel came around the table to stand at Dean's side.  He shivered.  Dean was giving off a blast of heat on Castiel's right side, but his left was chilled by the gusts of winds coming from the open wall.

"You slept?"

"Yes," Castiel said. A sleep troubled by nightmares, ones he never remembered clearly upon awaking.  He had slept deeply but troubled ever since he had arrived.

"Kneel."

Castiel did and Dean immediately put his hand at the back of Castiel neck.  Rolled his knuckles against Castiel's nape in a rough caress. It was, as always, improper and infuriating and Castiel swallowed down the pleasure it gave him, to be touched, contact, and set his mouth in a frown.

"So difficult," Dean murmured and pressed a piece of toast to Castiel's mouth, feeding him by hand.  There were demons here and there, none looking particularly at Castiel, but all the same he felt stripped bare.  Humiliated.

A slip up on his first full day in Hell and Castiel was consigned to this position.

"Worried?" Dean asked.

Castiel chewed around his mouthful of bread.  His stomach churned, but he needed the food. He shook his head slightly.

"If you were worried about a bad report, you should have worked harder to be more obedient," Dean continued and Castiel growled, opening his mouth to argue, until he looked up and saw the glint in Dean's eyes.  He was being baited, and his short-tempered response only proved Dean's point.

"Eat up," Dean said and Castiel sighed quietly and tried to do as he was told for once.

After breakfast, Castiel stood before the fire, his back to it, grateful for its warmth.  Demons came and went, scurrying around in preparation for the arrival of Heaven's emissary.  Meg entered the room with a saucy swish, twirling a wave in Castiel's direction.

 His eyes kept straying towards the heavy double doors.  What would Zachariah say?  Was Michael pleased or was Castiel to be found wanting? Would Castiel be allowed to go home?  Castiel glanced over at Sam, who was standing beside Dean, murmuring in his ear.  The boy caught Castiel's eye and smiled. Sam.  Castiel was loath to leave him.

The heavy double doors were flung open.

It wasn't Lord Zachariah.  It was _Michael_.

Castiel stared, mouth agape.  _Michael_.  The last time he had been this close…Castiel frowned.  He had never been that close to Michael.  He had seen him from afar, at the marches and ceremonies, Michael moving serenely at the head of the procession, line after line of angels dropping to their knees.

Behind Michael, a small honor guard.  Not enough warriors to be seen as a threat to Winchester Hall, just a score of angels, wings curved high and bright.  There was a dark-haired female at the lead, one pace behind Michael, and Castiel's stomach swooped as he met her blue eyes and suddenly _knew_ her.

Hannah.

 Jarred by the memory, Castiel knelt, bowed his head.

A hand at his chin.  Castiel looked up.  Michael was glancing down at him, smiling slightly, looking as benign as one of his own statues, the ones set up in temples and around the squares that made up Heaven.  Castiel shivered, awed at the presence of the divine.

Only something was wrong.

His mouth was curved and soft, but Michael's eyes were hard.  Full of hate.  Disgust.  Ire directed at Castiel.

Smiling that small, divine smile, Michael reached out and touched Castiel's forehead.

The sigil at the back of his head, the one sealing his memories, twisted open, the edges peeling back. Pain, white light.  Castiel gasped.

He remembered.

_A falling that seemed to take forever.  He wanted out of this misery, this pain, a quick ending.  Wings useless and broken, he fell, only to be thrown around by the shriek of cold wind, then lifted and buffered by the thermals rising from Hell's landscape.  He was turned so that he could only stare up at the ashy gray sky, the ground at his back. His stomach swooped unpleasantly, and if he could only pull in his wings, control his body, he would have made a sharp dive, dropping like a stone.  Head first into the hard, unforgiving ground. End it._

_It was not to be._

_Samandriel, he thought bleakly.  His little brother.  Flying by his side in shiny battle armour, smile of pride and fear in his eyes.  Too young.  Too young to be on the front lines of this battle._

_Samandriel, body twisted and destroyed.  Gone._

Castiel felt his mind pull apart further.  He let out a thin scream.

_"You know each other," Michael had said softly, for Castiel's ears only, standing close enough to touch, smiling.  He had been walking the line, surveying his awed troops.  The commander of the battalion, Rachel, stood down the line to the left of Castiel, bowing low as Michael passed by. Castiel had dropped his eyes for some many reasons, not the least of which his God was standing before him. Samandriel, two soldiers down and eyes front, had been trying not to look at Castiel.  They were brothers.  It wasn't allowed. Castiel should have said something to Rachel, should have allowed them to take his only known family away to another post._

_They had kept it a secret._

_And Castiel had not been ready to lie to Michael, even with his kin so close after all these years.  He had opened his mouth to confess, only to be arrested by a warm finger pressed against his lips.  Michael, Michael touching him._

_The touch of a God._

_"The boy shows an aptitude for battle magic," Michael had said casually, then he had strolled down the line, exchanging a small word here and there to the rest of the soldiers. Heads had bent on necks like flower stalks before the sun and Castiel had felt his gut unclench._

_Glad, he had been glad to have his brother close. It felt like a blessing. Michael's approval._

_Fool._

"It hurts," Castiel whimpered.  He was still on his knees.  His head felt like it was being cracked open.

_A sharp gust of wind and Castiel gasped as he was slammed into something.  His ribs fetched painfully against unyielding stone and he felt something snap,  Reaching out on instinct, his hand scrabbled and grabbed until it found painful purchase.  A window sill._

_Castiel was clinging to the top of a tall tower._

_He hadn't the strength to pull himself up and inside and he wouldn't have wanted to anyway.  He doubted that the inhabitants would be welcoming to an enemy angel, blasted by Hellfire. He dangled, feet scrabbling for purchase on the stone, rib on fire.  Wings painfully weighing him down. He glanced down dizzily, felt a thrill of terror through the agony of his grief and guilt.  Sharp spires on the towers below._

I'm so lucky to have this _, Samandriel had said, smiling before the low glow of the lamp in the tent._ My brother back.

_Castiel blinked to clear his eyes.  From the red cast over everything, he wasn't sure if he was blinking away tears or blood._

_Because Samandriel was standing in the window, looking down at him._

_Samandriel was dead.  Blasted out of the sky.  Samandriel had fallen. He was dead._

_Castiel blinked again.  Through the red haze, Samandriel looked younger, thinner. His face was in shadow.  His wings were tucked away out of sight, and a loop of heavy metal was weighing down his neck._

_"Sam—" Castiel rasped, his lungs aching as he tried to get breath.  Then again, free hand reaching, "Sam—"_

_Samandriel stepped into the light.  His brown hair caught the breeze, a billow of dandelion fluff around his head, his chest skinny and bare. Castiel blinked and his vision cleared.  His heart sank.  Not Samandriel.  Just a demon boy, a slave by the look of him, standing in the window, gazing down._

_The boy reached out and touched Castiel's hand._

_Castiel was expecting fingernails digging into his skin, or a fist , pounding hard, loosening his grip.  Instead, the demon boy stroked one finger through the copious amount of blood smeared on the back of Castiel's hand.  He gently trailed a pattern through the spatter, face thoughtful._

_He raised his red finger to his lips and sucked the blood into his mouth._

_"Sam--," Castiel whispered again._

_The boy studied him, a curious look on his face._

_Shaking with exhaustion, Castiel felt his grip loosening.  There was one thing, one thing he could do before he fell. One last act of rebellion, of compassion. He reached out with his mind, with his magic.  The spell on the slave boy's collar would be difficult to unweave, if Castiel had wanted to take the time to unbind it, to work through each treacherous loop to avoid a backlash.  But he didn’t bother._

_Reaching for everything he had left, Castiel focused in on the collar and sent one sharp, powerful blast of magic, everything he had in reserve.  He narrowed into a single beam of thought, slashing hard through the spelled metal._

_He heard rather than felt it snap._

_The backlash came swift, directed right at him, and Castiel welcomed it.  In a blaze of pain, he was skewered with light, his body arching into a bow.  He screamed as his mind was attacked by the counter-curse, he howled at the white-hot agony.  His hand slipped away, and he fell, wings fluttering, away from the window and the demon boy, towards the ground below._

Castiel blinked.  It took a second for him to realize where he was.  He was standing in Winchester Hall.  Sam's hand was on his shoulder.  Before him, Michael stood, still smiling that gentle, infuriating smile.

Castiel snapped to his feet, shoving Sam's hand away.

"You!  You, monster!" It should have been a shout, but it came out as a furious whisper.

"That's no way to talk to your God," Michael murmured coolly.   He didn't retreat so much as draw himself up, his body readying for defense. And Castiel saw that he had indeed raised his own hands, as if ready to cast a curse against Michael.  Castiel clenched his fists, furious, but shocked at his own aggression towards his Lord.

"My brother…"

"Yes.  You both showed a tremendous talent for warcraft.  It was why I made the exception.  Allowed you to serve together."

"He was a child! He had no business on the battlefield!"

"You weren't much older," Dean said quietly.

"W-what?" Castiel stammered.  He flinched back but not before Michael reached out, grabbed his face in a tight one-handed grip.  He felt another edge of the seal of his memory peel away.

"It was easier," Michael said quietly, holding Castiel's face firm, "to convince you that you were a man approaching the end of his youth, entering his middle years.  That you had settled for disappointment and mediocrity.  After all, I couldn't do anything about your hopes and dreams.  Those aren't memories.  But I could convince you that life had simply passed you by."

"The mirrors…"

He remembered.

_Castiel looked into the mirror, but his eyes shifted away.  They saw a young man just out of boyhood, tan cheeks still curved with youth, but then they didn't see.  Instead, they remembered, an image planted. A false reflection.  A man with lines around his eyes and leanness to his face, nearly two decades older._

"Why did you do it?" Castiel asked, anguish in his voice.  Even know, even though he knew, he didn’t feel young.  He felt tired, worn down.

"I'll show you," Michael said, still holding Castiel's chin.  He renewed his grip when Castiel would have jerked back. "Easy.  Slowly.  It's better if the truth is not revealed all at once."

Castiel, flinched, expecting another section of the sigil being pared away. Instead, he felt a step sideways, much as he had when Meg had invited him into her mind.  In an instant he was walking side by side with Michael, entering Michael's mind.

_The main hall was easy to recognize, even though through Michael's eyes it was more blood stained and damaged, the site of a recent battle.  Demons thronged the room, pacing restlessly, nervous at the sight of Michael and his entourage, Hannah walking behind him, face smeared with dried blood, eyes wide with shock.  Before the fire stood Sam, and Dean.  Sam wore a simple shift, his legs bare, a ring of metal in his hand. Sheered in half.  His collar.  Beside him stood Dean, bare-chested, blood streaking his skin, his hair.  Beside Sam….Castiel felt his mind stutter. At Sam's side Castiel knelt, dressed in the ragged remnants of his battle armor, ruined wings dragging the floor. The left one was especially mangled, the bones bent, feathers burnt or missing.  It was a shock, again, to see his own young face.  His eyes were vague, blank.  Like no one was home._

_"Castiel," Michael said, but the Castiel on his knees didn’t respond._

_Sam smiled widely.  His teeth were streaked with blood.  Castiel watched as the Sam from the past patted the other Castiel's shoulder fondly._

_"We never got a name," Sam said. "Castiel.  Cas."_

With a sideway jerk, Castiel snapped back into the here and now. He jerked away from Michael's grip and Michael let him.

"Why not break the sigil?" Castiel asked. "Show me everything. Why show me what you saw?"

"You were mindless," Michael said. "More animal than angel.  It took the expertise of all our healers to create layers of new memories, a new history. A new Castiel.  They did try to restore you, but you had already Fallen. The taint of Hell. My most fearless warrior, I would have had you back, leading my army. It was not to be. If I broke the sigil, I fear you would return to that mindless state. "

"You were never able to seal it all away," Castiel whispered. Fallen.  Michael had cast him out?

Michael stepped away.  He rubbed his hands on his robe, mouth a moue of distaste.  He directed his gaze at Sam. "I'll have what I came for now."

Castiel stiffened, expecting to be shoved towards Michael, but instead Sam simply nodded.  He gestured to Meg, and she left the room in a swish of skirts, returning shortly with a heavy book under her arm.  Castiel blinked, recognizing it.  It was the book he had seen his first night in Winchester Hall.  The book with the rebound spell, more powerful that any protective curse he'd seen before.

No, he amended, there had been one stronger.

"Thank you, Lord Winchester," Michael said, taking the book, but he was looking at Sam.

"Are we in agreement?" Sam asked calmly, shoulders back. Castiel shot a glance at Dean.  He was standing against the wall, body defensive, looking for all the world like Sam's muscle. Castiel's mind reeled.

"He can't stay as he is," Michael said, eyes flickering at Castiel. "Make him your slave, as he was before. I've enough of rogue angels traipsing around Hell."

"Remove his sigils then," Sam commanded. "All of them."

"The one on his memories can't be fully removed."

"It doesn't matter I suppose," Sam said agreeably, and then his hand was stroking Castiel's cheek affectionately. "Not when it comes to what I want him for."

Michael's mouth twisted again in disgust, and he reached for Castiel.  Castiel tried to skitter back, bumping into Sam's legs. He raised his arms in defense—

Three short blasts of magic, fast and painful.  Castiel screamed as he felt the spells on his flank and shoulders break.  His wings surged out, beyond his control, exploding into being in a burst of agony.  They flared up, huge and dark and Castiel could see now, the left wing broken and bedraggled, crisped and still raw.

Pain.

It was all true, everything, and Castiel screamed again and toppled down at Michael's feet.  As his eyes flickered shut, he saw Michael swish his robe away, a retreat from the unclean, and then Castiel fell into unconsciousness.


	20. Chapter 20

The room was warm and Castiel felt drowsy.  He hurt, a dull ache, but overall he felt pleasant, loose, not wound so tight, on guard, as he had felt for so long. For forever.  His skin was bare and it felt good to shift on his stomach, to drag his skin against the warmth beneath his belly like a scent marking cat.  There was a weight to his back, something that rustled faintly with each of his exhalations, but it didn't feel like it was trapping him, containing him.

Where was he?

Castiel's eyes flickered open.  It was dim, the light reddish, and after he blinked his sleep-blurred eyes he could see rich fabric—the hangings around the bed had been pulled—and beyond that dark cocoon, the flicker of firelight through a crack in the drapes.

He was in bed.  He was…home?

No.  He was in Winchester Hall.  Memories of a stern face…disappointment, disgust.  Michael. Hannah behind him, mouth tight with guilt. Shame.  The pain of his wings unfurling, the left crisped and blackened.  The pain in his mind as broken memory spells pulled the veil from his eyes…revealing everything he'd done.  Become.

Castiel was Fallen.

He felt a curl of shame in his stomach, and he shifted up, trying to roll onto his side, to get up.  There was a light stab of pain in his back and at the same time he felt hands—strong as a manacle but blood warm—grip him and hold him immobile.

"Stay." Dean's voice.

He turned his head.  He was in bed and Dean was beneath him.

Castiel blinked.  Lord Winchester—no, just Dean, Lord Winchester was Sam—was as bare as Castiel in the low light. Castiel flushed.  It had never been so warm in Castiel's chamber that he had ever lay nude above his covers, and now…

They were face to face, kissing close, every inch of skin touching.  Castiel squirmed, then wished he hadn't.  He could feel Dean's cock against his own now, the sensation of him hard and straining somehow delicious.  Castiel wanted to rock his hips.  His stomach churned with desire, a seasick sensation, new and unlike anything he'd ever known.  It was too much.  It all felt terribly, terribly good.

"Don't," Dean said warningly, as Castiel tried to shift away and pain shot up his back.

"I—"

"Stay." Hands gripping his hips, holding him still.

"I need to—"

"It's taken great effort to arrange you in a manner that was least painful." Still that rough, derisive charm in Dean's voice. "You need to hold still, Castiel. Don't move and spoil our hard work."

Castiel stilled, but he turned his cheek to the bed, peered at the lump of feathers nestled on his back.  He could just see in his periphery, how the wings had been bound with white gauze, folded gently to minimize movement.

 "Will you remove them?" Castiel asked, voice low, trembling.  He remembered now, the sibilant whispers of Alistair, the tongs and pliers, the pain.  Dean above him, plucking at his wings. How long and loud he had screamed, even through his despair. He thought od the angels in the pleasure room, stripped down to sensation and function.  Minds pruned just like their bodies. Was that what awaited him?

Dean chuckled. "You didn’t even remember having use of them an hour ago, and now you mourn them?"

"I remember," Castiel said simply. The pleasure, of a thoughtless stretch that took his powerful wings out to their full span.  The lift of a thermal, an intimate caress rippling his feathers. The loss, the now dull ache of despair.  A spell blasting through the air, crisping his wing and taking his brother. _Samandriel._

"You remember then that you were brought into the castle after you fell.  You remember that I tortured you for information."

"Some of it.  Yes. Yes."

"I haven't a mind to torture you, little angel. At least, not like that," Dean whispered, voice low, private.  The hands that had gripped Castiel relaxed, became less a band of restriction and more a warm caress.  As he always had, Castiel responded to that touch, his skin soaking it up, like parched soil. Castiel shivered as Dean's nails grazed the inside of his thigh. "I haven't been Alistair's puppet, not for some time. I've no desire to see your blood spattering the floor again."

"I knew…I knew…"

"You were afraid of me when you met me.  Instinct perhaps.  I did make you scream beautifully.  The angel that routed Lucifer, turned the tide in the war between Heaven and Hell. Alistair wanted you to pay dearly for that. And all the while I worked on you, my newly freed little brother was running around, soaring on angel blood, destroying Azazel's forces so thoroughly. Alistair had his eyes on Heaven, but it was Hell he should have been watching out for."

"Sam. Lord Winchester."

"Yes," Dean said.  He stroked Castiel some more, the callus of one of Dean's thumbs catching on Castiel's hip, sending shivers across the angel's skin. "The boy king, if only he had a taste for crowns.  He's responsible for Hell's rebellion. For demon freedom.  With a little help from you."

Castiel shifted, feeling embarrassed, aroused despite the disturbing turn of conversation.  That part of him that had always been quiet, that had made him sexless, was filling, hardening.  A new feeling, frightening and overwhelming. Dean's fingers were drifting along Castiel's skin, rough draft with a pricking edge of nail, warming every inch they touched.  Arousal, building low in Castiel's stomach.  Sexual desire—he'd never felt it before but he knew it for what it was, as his face began to heat and he became uncomfortably aware of Dean, warm and naked, under him. It seemed unstoppable, like a wall, promising overwhelming sensation.

"S…stop!"

"Relax," Dean murmured, reproof in his tone. "I won't hurt you."

"I want…I want it to stop." Dean's other hand, feathering over Castiel's neck, making the angel bite back a moan. Touch, that thing he had so often craved, but changed now, made more desperate and dangerous, sending a shiver through him. Touch that enflamed instead of soothed. Attraction, before just an abstraction, an amusement, now a snare reeling Castiel in.

"Am I hurting you?" Dark humor in Dean's voice.

It was a low ache, this desire.  Pain but not pain.  Castiel evaded, "I should get up…I have things…"

His job.  The books.  Michael's quest all along, for that one tome. Why was it important?  And what did it matter if Castiel was shut out, shunned? Where was duty now? Castiel focused on that mystery, tried to turn inward, away from the clamoring demands of his body.

"You have nothing pressing." Dean's hand, smoothing warm on Castiel's lower back. "And if you tried to stand now you'd probably faint.  Again.  Just be still."  That palm, calloused and hot, possessively cupping the curve of Castiel's ass.

"I don’t think we need to be this close," Castiel panted.

"Didn't bother you so much before." Dean's voice was amused, weighted with his usual vicious humor. "In the bath, when I tended you, you were so cool, unaffected.  Something changed?"

"Like before," Castiel murmured. In the bath.  Dean's arms wrapped around him. Dean's kiss. Pleasant and pleasing.  But not setting him on fire, not like he was burning now.

"You don't have to be under me."

"Rather I was on top of you?"

"No!" Something there.  Something…Dean, looming over him, death's-head grin.  Castiel began to struggle, whimpering at the sharp digs of pain from his wings.

"Hush, little angel.  Still." Dean's hands, holding him. "Don’t hurt yourself. My healing works best if we're skin to skin."

"Healing?"

"I told you I've got a talent for twisting bodies apart; just as simple to use that to put them back together."

"You could have healed Sam." That first night.  Castiel felt the hot flush of anger at that thought.

"I usually do.  When it suits me.  But I don't have your tender motherly touch."

"It was all lies," Castiel muttered.

"Hell is built on deception.  You knew that.  Stop thinking so hard," Dean said.  The hands, that had been holding hard to Castiel's hips, gentled.  Rough, strong hands, now sliding up to knead the flesh of Castiel's ass, the push their hips closer together. "Strung so tight. I've rarely seen you relax."

Dean scraped his nails lightly down Castiel's skin, digging in at the tender curve where ass met thigh and Castiel gasped again. One hand slid up to cup the back of Castiel's neck, a firm grip.

"I've always liked touching you here," Dean whispered. "And watching your face.  Your beautiful mouth would get so tight, so disapproving.  But every time I did, your eyelashes would flutter. You could never deny how much pleasure it gave you."

 Castiel looked up, met Dean's eyes, green-gold and hot by the firelight.  Dean smiled, licked his lips.  Tilted his chin to lick into Castiel's mouth, swallowing Castiel's moan.

The kiss was gentle, Dean's lips soft and warm, his tongue stroking against Castiel's in a lazy rhythm. His touch was just as soft, light scratch of nails and the rough pads of his fingertips, sending sparks all along Castiel's skin. Dean's hips rocked, sliding his cock against Castiel's, sweat-damp friction between them.

"I can't, please stop doing that," Castiel begged, pulling their mouths apart with effort.

"Doing what? Kissing you?" Dean's tongue, swiping across Castiel's bottom lip. "Touching you?" Dean's hand, gripping Castiel's ass, squeezing, the other sliding from Castiel's neck to knead on the other side. "What, little angel?"

"That thing…with your hips."

"That thing that… _I'm_ doing?" Dean nipped at Castiel's mouth once more, then he let his head fall back, grinning.  His hands on Castiel's ass slowed their movement. "That _I'm_ doing?" He let his hips still, holding his body immobile.

Castiel groaned, burying his face in Dean's shoulder.  Now that Dean was motionless, he could feel his own hips, rocking against Dean.  The eager way he was rubbing their cocks together.  He couldn't seem to stop it, he didn't want to.

"Needy." Dark satisfaction in Dean's husky voice and Castiel groaned again.

"Please."

"Please what? Stop? Don't?"

"Please don’t make me feel…like I'm…alone in this."

"You want me to fuck you back? Rub against you? Let you pretend that you don't feel anything? Let you hide?"

"Just…please…it's…" Castiel swallowed hard, still rutting against Dean. "Humiliating."

"Just what I like." One of Dean's fingers, dragging with tantalizing slowness down the crease of Castiel's ass. "Tell me, little angel, little soldier, if I just lay here, how long would you work yourself against me, gasping and moaning, that blush of shame rosy on your cheeks. Do you think you would come? Spew hot and helpless, your first time, rubbing off on me like a young demon does on his pillows?"

"Dean," Castiel moaned.  The crudeness of it, the cruelly satisfied tone of Dean's voice, was only stoking the fire inside Castiel.

"You're not above it all now," Dean hissed and he grabbed Castiel, hands burning, and pulled them together.  Added his rhythm to Castiel's own, sending Castiel flying higher and higher.

"Why…why do I feel this way?"

"The broken sigil," Dean murmured, tracing a pattern with his finger on the now bare skin of Castiel's flank, "All that stored passion, it had to be released…," he broke off, laughing, and nipped Castiel's chin, "you were starting to look relieved, little angel.  I'm teasing you.  There's no reason, nothing but your own hunger.  It's gratifying to see how much you want me."

 Castiel arched away from the touch. Or into it.  His mind racing, seeking distraction. "Where's Sam?"

"Always Sam," Dean sighed, lapping at Castiel's chin. "Am I so terrifying?"

Castiel opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.  Sam, his comfort and his touchstone, the illusion of a younger brother.  Sam, a powerful demon lord, ruling over all of Winchester Hall.

Ruling even over Dean.

It had all been a lie.

A door creaked open and slammed.  Castiel tried to crane up, to see who had entered, only to be gently pulled back down by Dean.  A rustle of cloth beyond the bed hangings, and then a quick glare of light as Sam pushed through the drapes to bound lightly on the bed, as naked as Castiel himself.

"Speak of the devil," Dean murmured.

"Hi, Cas," Sam said, the shyness of his voice not matching the eager glow to his dark eyes.  He was looking at Castiel as if he was something good to eat.

"Lord Winchester," Castiel said breathlessly, striving for formal, feeling ridiculous.  He was naked in Dean's embrace, embarrassingly aroused, unable to still the rocking of his hips.  It was an indefensible position.

"None of that now, Cas," Sam said.  He reached out, hand warm on Castiel's cheek and despite everything Castiel eagerly leaned into his touch. "You've been calling Dean that for far too long, you'll just get confused.  It's just Sam and Dean, nothing more and nothing else."

"He gave me to you," Castiel said. Again he saw Michael's face, felt the rejection.  A failure to be sequestered, contained. Cast out of Heaven.

"Michael's had terrible luck with wayward angels," Dean said.

" _Fallen_."

"He's still as melodramatic as the day he swept in here and took you from us," Sam said, scowling.  He scratched his fingers against Castiel's scalp, a blissful caress. "We should never have let him."

The memories surfaced.  Hazy only because Castiel's mind had been hazy that day.  The rebound of Azazel's curse, shredding nearly every piece of him.  The tatters that grief had left.  Castiel broken down into only one purpose: There was a boy and Castiel must protect him.

"I'm crazy," Castiel whispered.

"You were empty," Sam countered gently. "They tried to fill you back up again with useless things.  But you were still mine.  You were always mine."

 "You're going to put a collar on me," Castiel said helplessly.  He was soaking in Sam's warmth, his touch, only now he could feel the pull that Sam had always wanted, that magnetic spark of desire. Shameful because Sam was so young…only Castiel was somehow young, too.

So much he still didn't remember.

"Are you going to tell me 'no'?" Sam asked playfully.

Castiel bit his lip, not answering.  He knew he didn’t have to.  Now that he knew some part of this devotion was magic, compulsion, it felt even more real.  Sam.  How much he was willing to do for him.

Be his slave. Serve his will as he had served Michael.  Castiel shivered.

"Under our command," Sam coaxed, voice dark with satisfaction. "My angel. It won't be so bad."

He levered himself up, then swung his body over to blanket Castiel's, settling in between the bound masses that were Castiel's wings.

"You're heavy," Castiel complained nervously.  He could feel every inch of Sam's bare front, pressed against his own skin. Sam's cock, as full and heavy as his own, settling in the damp crease of Castiel's ass.

"Not so heavy," Sam replied, nuzzling at Castiel's neck.  His fingers, long and deft, were moving gently along Castiel's left wing, ruffling through the damaged and bent feathers. Sharp stab of pain and Castiel whimpered, but no sound came out.

"That hurts!"

"Sorry," Sam murmured, fingers still moving. He sighed, "It's been so long since I've seen them, touched them."

"Broken," Castiel whispered.  He could see it, as Michael had seen it.  The left one, charred and shattered.  Barely a wing at all, anymore.

"Beautiful," Sam said.  He bent his head and trailed a series of wet kisses across Castiel's shoulder. He amended, "And broken.  You came to me broken, on that day.  You were perfect for me."

He lifted up with a sigh, his mouth trailing down to nip at Castiel's skin, soothing each sharp bite with his hot tongue, as his mouth drifted down the curve of Castiel's back.  Castiel jerked beneath him, each stinging mark of Sam's teeth making him writhe against Dean.

"So quiet," Sam laughed, tilting his head to leave a particularly vicious bite on the cheek of Castiel's ass. "You don’t have to be so proud, Cas.  I want to hear you. Your sighs, your cries, everything."

"You won't," Dean said smoothly.  He reached up, dragged his fingers roughly across Castiel's scalp.  Castiel moaned loudly. Sam's teeth, sharp gnashing against Castiel's skin, brought only silence.

"I won't…what did you do?!" Sam's voice, confused, then enraged.

"Just a deal. Every sound he makes, every moan, every scream, is mine."

"That isn't fair! He's mine!"

"I know that," Dean said, voice calm and low in Castiel's ear. "He's always been yours, even before and after he was given by Alistair to me. You can’t blame me Sam, for taking what I can. What little he hasn't already pledged, heart and soul, to you."

"He'll love me more," Sam hissed, voice dark.  His hands were gripping Castiel's ass, thumbs, tugging at the crease, and Castiel shivered, panting silently against Dean's chin.

"He'll love you forever," Dean replied. "And he'll probably never love me.  So I'll chip away the pieces I can get.  He's so gullible sometimes, so willing to sacrifice for you, how will you stop him, Sam?"

With a furious growl, Sam pulled Castiel's cheeks apart, and jabbed his tongue right to the center.

Castiel's breath punched out of him in a soundless scream.

Beneath Castiel, Dean knocked the angel's chin up and pressed gliding wet kisses under Castiel's jaw, making him whimper.

Sam lapped and lapped, wet and sloppy, hungry for Castiel it seemed, as if he'd been waiting to eat him alive all this time.  Each jab and thrust with his mouth was angry, his growls vibrating against Castiel's sensitive skin. Castiel tilted his hips, grinding down, canting up, hungry for both sensations, Dean hard against him and Sam's tongue, hot and wet, above. Pleasure building and building within him, like the force of a spell, just waiting to be unleashed.

"Me first." Castiel wasn't sure who growled it.

"I guess you've waited long enough."

"Damn you, Dean."

"Oil, Sam."

"You'll heal him."

"There are limits, even for you.  Oil, Sam."

There was a shift on the bed, then slick fingers stabbed ungently inside Castiel, making his back arch at the intensity.  He opened his mouth to speak, to beg, and was gagged with Dean's tongue.

The fingers slid out and then Sam's cock slid through the wet mess of Castiel's ass, tunneling in, steady and merciless.  Castiel tried to gasp, tried to cry out, turning his face from Dean.  Only silence puffing past his trembling lips, as he writhed, opening up, unfolding under Sam's onslaught.

"Tight. So, tight, Cas."

"Do you like it?" Dean whispered into Castiel's mouth.

"Say my name," Sam hissed, thrusting with his hips in earnest.  It was a burn, but a welcome one, Sam shoving in, making himself at home inside of Castiel, filling him up, and Castiel arched into it, his hips bracketed by two sets of hands, one gentle, one demanding.  Ragged, boy nails digging into Castiel's ass.

"Sam."

"Again!"

"Sam…oh, Sam!"

"I want to hear you."

"I can't…I'm going to…"

"No," Sam said.  Thin fingers, forming a vice around Castiel's throbbing cock, tourniquet to his desire. Dean suddenly accommodating, using his hands to push Castiel's hips up, leave him hanging cold and desperate in the air, cock jerking in thwarted frustration in Sam's brutal grip.

"Please!"

"Beg for it, little angel," Dean whispered in his ear. "I like how desperate you sound."

"Please, Sam, please."

Teeth at the nape of Castiel's neck. Sam bent in one long curve, hips pumping, and bit down, again and again, each mark a claim, inhuman sounds rising from behind his gnashing teeth, leaving red marks all over Castiel's skin."

"Sam…please…Sam…please…"

Hips jerking, Sam came with a curse. He pulled out in one sharp movement, falling back on the bed on his knees, panting.

Castiel's neck felt raw, ravaged.  His cock, throbbing, as if he could still feel the grip of Sam's fingers. He felt open, empty, tender to the touch everywhere, regrettably empty.  Wetness, trickling down his thighs.  He tried to push himself back onto Dean, cock to cock, working his hips desperately, but Dean still held him away with ease.

"Please," Castiel whimpered, ashamed, hungry.  He struggled harder, pain lighting up around his wings.

"Hush," Dean soothed, tugging Castiel up gently.  He titled his hips and glided in, filling the emptiness inside Castiel with one smooth push.  He swallowed Castiel's thin shriek with a kiss.

"No words," Dean said against Castiel's mouth, smiling cruelly. "Just sounds.  Let me make you sing, little angel."

This time, no cruel depravation.  Castiel rutted his pleasure against Dean's stomach, rocking his hips down to meet Dean's cock with a wet slap each time.  Behind him, he felt Sam's regard, the boy watching Castiel fuck his brother, and then two of those narrow fingers, pushing in, curling in to slide along  his brother's cock as it slip-slid inside Castiel.

"Sam!," Castiel gasped, only half in complaint.

"Soon," Sam crooned.

"Not yet."

"He was made for us."

"Please—" Castiel's words, an entreaty or a complaint, swallowed into Dean's mouth.

"Moan for me," Dean commanded, snapping his hips up, short, jabbing strokes.

Castiel moaned. He was lost in it, all the pain, the betrayal, everything washed away.  Only sensation as he had never known, and endless touch, and closeness.

Castiel came, sparks at the corners of his wide-open eyes.  Dean's face, his cruel eyes fluttering shut, mouth open on a thread-y moan.  The two of them, surging together, up, and up, and then crashing down like a ship slammed down on a stormy sea.

In the aftermath, regret.  Castiel felt sticky, come drying cold on his skin.  He felt mortified. He had lost nearly everything, and the rest he had given away, if only because he was alone and lonely and he wanted so badly not to be. He shifted, still impaled on Dean's softening cock. He could feel every ache, every stinging bite and nail scrape.

"I can feel you, locking back up like a vault full of treasure," Dean said.

"I can't. I can't do this. I was—"

"An embarrassment," Dean said, merciless as ever. "Something to be gotten rid of. What pride could you still possibly be holding onto?"

"I was—" His.  Michael's. Chosen.  Golden. A soldier.

Nothing, now.

"If we walked out right now, would you fling yourself out a window?" Dean taunted, shifting his hips, slipping out of Castiel.

"Don't…don’t leave me," Castiel blurted out, cheeks red with embarrassment, fingers clutching. What was one more humiliation, on top of all the others?

But he wasn't taunted. If anything, his mortifying admission seemed to please them. Dean pulled him down, chest to chest, satisfied rumble in his throat.  Sam collapsed on top of Castiel, smothering him with weight and warmth, but it felt good.  He was cocooned, and whatever he might emerge as after all of this, at least he wasn't alone.

"Never leave," Sam murmured, lips against  Castiel's damp, bruised neck. "Never. Ours."

"Rest, Castiel," Dean murmured, his hands moving over Castiel's skin. "It will help with the healing. Rest."

He could feel it.  A spark of magic along his wings, heat rushing from Dean, as the demon continued to murmur, snatches of a spell barely audible.  The love bites and stinging scratches, fading.  When he tilted his head, the left wing looked much the same. Charred feathers and thin, snapped bones, bound in gauze.  But he could feel, perhaps a little, that somehow in the middle of that storm of passion, things had been pulled minutely into place.

"Rest, little angel."

Closing his eyes, Castiel did.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

"I'm consistently amazed to find you here," Dean said, letting himself into the pleasure room, the door closing behind him with a soft thunk. "Then again, perhaps I'm not."

Castiel paused in his reading.  He was sitting before the fireplace, stretched out on the floor. An angel, female with dark skin and darker hair, was lying with her head in Castiel's lap.

"It's warm," Castiel said simply.

"It is," Dean said agreeably, "but that's not why you come."

"No," Castiel said.  He closed the book Meg had given him, a history of Heaven and Hell she herself had written.  Blasphemy.  Truth.  And the starring role Castiel played in it made him uncomfortable.

"I'm surprised to find you up and…out of bed."

Castiel flushed.  As if on cue, he could suddenly feel every tender place that Sam had lavished attention on that morning, long after Dean had gone.  The bites on his throat and shoulders, the nail marks on his thighs and flank.  The thin red weals on his wrists, hidden by his cuffs. He shifted in his place on the floor, ass sore, like he could almost still feel Sam inside him.

"He's demanding.  More demanding than me," Dean continued. "He's waited so long to have you; I'm surprised he didn't tie you to the bed."

"He doesn't need to," Castiel countered, perversely pleased with the joke at his own expense made Dean's mouth tighten in annoyance.

"Still."

"Maybe I wanted a moment alone. A moment at peace," Castiel amended, fingers in the angel's hair.

"No chance of that now." Dean's eyes flickered to the amulet around Castiel's neck. "I can feel you, where you are.  We both can. There isn't anywhere in Hell that you can go that we won't know about."

Castiel said nothing.

"That doesn't seem to bother you."

"Heaven keeps track of its angels," Castiel said shortly. His fingers left the angel's head and drifted to his own flank, to the missing sigil there.  All Heaven's marks, missing. He was cast out. All he felt was phantom heartache. "Whether it's you or Michael, someone's always known where I am.  What does the collar matter?"

"Casting off my chains was the first thing I did, after Sam killed Alistair," Dean said.  Castiel had no memory of it, although he knew he had been in the room at the time.  There was the temptation to try to chase down the memory, to peel back the edges of what remained of the sigil, the wall holding the rest of those memories at bay.  A maddening itch.

Dean continued, "Maybe you like being a slave."

He meant, of course, Castiel's foolish oath, spoken in love and haste, in a dark bedroom.  His promise to obey Sam.

After their lovemaking—if could Castiel even call it that, the savage way they had both possessed him—Sam had urged Castiel to his knees on the floor.  Still naked, skin chilled and damp with sweat and other fluids, Castiel had blinked up at his strange, new lord.

_Sam had smiled.  He had raised his other hand.  Wrapped around his wrist had been a gold chain, and for a moment Castiel had thought it was the locket he had been given. The one he looked at late at night, Sam and Dean's pictures on the inside, and kept tucked safely under his pillow. Then he had seen the necklace had a face carved out of metal dangling like a charm, horns on a tiny golden head._

_"What is that?" Castiel had asked._

_"An artifact. An amulet. Powerful. It's been dormant for a while now, waiting. I can use it to cast the binding Michael asked for," Sam had said.  His tone—apologetic, gentle—hadn't matched the excitement dancing in his eyes.  Castiel had sighed quietly.  He was lost...had been lost, he then realized, since that day clinging to the side of the tower, staring up into Sam's inscrutable gaze._

_"There is another option," Dean had said and Sam had scowled._

_"Dean!"_

_"He should know.  It is, after all, the more strategic choice. Better for Hell."_

_"Not better for us!"_

_"Better for all in Winchester territory.  Duty, Sam."_

_Sam had opened his mouth to argue but Castiel had interrupted. "What is it?"_

_"We make you our god," Dean had said simply._

_"There's only one God," Castiel had snapped, then bit his lip.  Cast out. Michael had excommunicated him._

_"It may be hard for you to wrap your narrow-minded, stubborn head around, Castiel, "Dean had said, "But Hell had its own deities. Heaven had Michael, ageless, timeless, and—" Dean had snorted "—infallible. Hell had Azazel and Lucifer, among others. It's easy to mold yourself into a god, when you have the right spell."_

_"Spell?" The book in Michael's hands. His tight, possessive grip on the cover.  Castiel's mind had whirled._

_"Now you see," Dean had murmured softly._

_"He…he didn’t."_

_"Didn't what? Use forbidden magic to transform himself, and create his own religion? He did. As did Lucifer.  And Azazel.  Stole the book and created their own paradise right here in Hell.  Demon supplicants instead of angels. They were all just angels like you once.  No better than the rest. No more holy. They were once mortal."_

_Castiel had blinked.  If Dean was right, he couldn't believe it.  Michael had been everything, unshakeable, since Castiel could first reason, remember. How could it all be a hoax, a trick?_

_Dean had continued, "Your god is a jealous god, little angel.  There can be only one. His war with Hell and the demon uprising cleared the field, for the most part.  But faith is powerful. Despite the suffering here, the slavery, demons are without a god to worship.  And some of them turn back to Lucifer, swell his ranks, simply because he's all they know. They need something to believe in. A demon lord is not enough."_

_"The birth of a new god," Castiel had whispered. "But Michael took back the book!"_

_"I have a copy," Dean had said, smiling. "It was the first book you unlocked, Castiel, did you think I didn't have the time to duplicate it?  It was better for Michael to think we had to search for it, that Azazel had hidden it, or that Lucifer had it.  But we always knew where it was.  Sitting dusty on a library shelf. The means to create an immortal."_

_"It's a terrible idea," Sam had growled._

_"You would be Hell's new ruler," Dean had continued, as calm as Sam was incensed. "You're powerful, little angel. Exceptional.  Strong enough to hold Heaven and Lucifer at bay.  Stabilized and unite Hell.  And you wouldn't be a cruel god.  You're too gentle for that."_

_"Too gentle for all of it," Sam had argued._

_"I can't," Castiel had blurted._

_"You could," Dean had countered lightly._

_"Why don't you do it? Or Sam?"_

_"Angel blood," Sam had said. "The spell requires an angel. Not a demon."_

_"I can't," Castiel had said again._

_"You don't have to," Sam had said._

_"I can't! I can't pretend!  Fool people!  Set myself up as their god! It's wrong!"_

_Dean had sighed._

_"I w-want to go home," Castiel had stammered, then closed his eyes, feeling foolish.  He had been cast out of Heaven.  He couldn’t return and even if he could, he couldn't bow and pray to a charlatan, pretend that Michael was still his Lord. His cell in the Archives, his quiet life, was gone._

_"This is home," Sam had said.  He had reached out and cupped the back of Castiel's neck. "Despite what Dean's said, there's really only one choice here, isn’t there, Cas?"_

_Castiel had opened his eyes.  Sam had been smiling down at him, hand kneading Castiel's neck, the other swinging the amulet gently, back and forth.  He had looked relaxed, lazy, except for the intensity in his gaze._

_Castiel had hesitated, then nodded._

_"I want your promise.  Even above the amulet, I want your words."_

_"Sam," Castiel had whispered, "Sam."_

_"What?"_

_"I promise," Castiel had said, voice both adoring and miserable._

_"Say it."_

_"I promise to obey you. I promise—"Castiel's words had been cut off by the clash of his teeth against Sam's as the boy slammed their mouths together eagerly._

_"Unbelievable," Dean had said, but he sounded amused._

_Clink of metal and then Sam had drawn the amulet gently around Castiel's neck.  The metal had been blood-warm, and it had settled lightly against Castiel's sweat dampened skin._

_Sam had muttered the words of a spell, tongue darting out as he shaped the sibilant words._

_The amulet had heated up, and Castiel let out a hiss as he felt the metal uncomfortably hot against his skin.  But there had been no pain, surprisingly; no burn and when Sam had reached out to stroke Castiel's neck, his fingers had sent the amulet swinging, the metal cooling, until it felt just like a simple necklace, innocuous against Castiel's chest._

_"It's done," Sam had said._

_"What Michael wanted," Castiel had whispered._

_"It's stupid," Sam had said, smiling. "A spell that compels you to do what you would have done anyway."_

_"You had to put it on me anyway," Castiel had murmured. "You had a deal with Michael."_

_"He never kissed me," Sam had said impishly. "He was in too big a hurry to leave."_

_Castiel had chuckled at that, laughed through the pain.  Michael, hurrying to leave the taint of Hell, to get out unscathed. Leaving Castiel behind…well, he'd been left by enough people already.  Surely he would get used to being abandoned by his God. After all, Castiel had supposed, in his own way, choosing Sam on the tower, he had left Michael first._

Castiel merely shrugged, drifting out of his reverie, fingering the amulet around his neck. "I've always served."

He looked up at Dean, who was studying him with that same weighted and intense gaze. Dean seemed content to let the silence linger on, until Castiel felt compelled to fill it. He looked at the angel snuggled near him, at the marks on her back.  His own wings, still ruined, still painful, had been carefully tucked away again, with the help of Dean. He could now release them on his own, if he wanted, but to what purpose.  They were useless.

"Do they have names?"

"I imagine they did. Once," Dean said. He smiled cruelly, a defense mechanism, Castiel was beginning to realize, but it still sent a rill of fear up Castiel's spine.

"Once.  We'll never know, now."

"I scooped out their past and left a scraped-clean shell," Dean agreed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What happens if my wings can't be fixed?"

"Are you asking if I'm going to make you like _them_? Again? I'm sensing a lack of trust here."

Castiel ignored Dean's sarcastic tone. "I'm broken."

"Maybe we like you that way," Dean purred, tongue running over his top front teeth and Castiel flushed with memory. Dean, his guard strangely down, pushing pleasurably into Castiel's body.

Muscle memory, that same sensation, but painful, an insignificant humiliation lost in a sea of agony.  Dean pushing into Castiel's bound body, looming over him, teeth bared in a cruel grin. Iron collar around his throat.

Startled, Castiel blinked up at Dean.

"Survival of the fittest," Castiel continued, voice trembling, pushing that memory away. "Hell doesn't allow for weaknesses." He gently pushed the angel to the side, standing on shaky legs. "Why not kill them? Kill me?"

"That isn’t my thinking," Dean said, eyes hot with scorn. "That's Michael's."

He stepped forward, hand out, but that painful memory of another time was too keen.  Castiel jerked back.

"Still skittish?"

"I suspect," Castiel said carefully, "I always will be."

Dean froze.  His green eyes narrowed. "You remember."

"Remember what?"

"You. Me."

"What you did," Castiel said, and watched as shame chased its way across Dean's face, before his familiar expression of cruelty returned.

"Yes."

"Are you sorry?"

"No."

"And yet," Castiel murmured, "last night, you put yourself beneath me. You made it…as different as possible.  It wasn't just that you didn’t want me to remember—"

"I don't care if you remember," Dean hissed. "It was my job.  I've dug my fingers through guts, plucked out eyes, pruned away hope and light and humanity.  You want me to regret that I fucked you?"

"Dean—"

"Or do you regret that I fucked you first? Sam does."

"Sam—" Castiel stopped. Sam was Sam.  In many ways, Castiel had no doubt he was as dark as his brother, if not darker.

"Enough of this. Come with me," Dean said, and he impatiently reached out, grip painful on Castiel's arm, and propelled him out the door.

"Where?"

"Someone wants to see you."

It wasn't in the library, or in the main hall, that Dean dragged Castiel.  Instead, it was an empty room, as mean as a cell.  Inside, a lone figure.

Hannah.

She was alone, and a part of Castiel muttered about the lack of strategy, of planning, to put her so vulnerable, before he realized it was privacy. Or shame.  Whatever had to be said, it wasn't fit for public consumption. He stood, Dean at his back, and waited to be excoriated, as Michael had done prior, with words and wilting gaze.

"Castiel," she said simply, eyes tear-bright and something in his heart cracked open.

"I thought you left," he said stupidly.

"Michael did.  Most of the honor guard as well.  I have a small, loyal contingent.  I asked for this moment, a favor."

"A favor from Michael?"

"A favor from Lord Winchester."

Castiel was quiet at that.  He studied her, small, proud figure in glinting armor, her wings tucked away out of courtesy for the small room. His left shoulder blade itched.

"You don't remember me."

"We served together."

"Yes.  I was there that day, when we…recovered you. I can…answer your questions.  If you have them."

"Swear to tell the truth."

"I--I swear.  But Castiel—"

He stepped forward, kissed her briefly on the mouth.  Felt now, that mild flare of power, a bargain sealed on Hell soil.  She blinked in confusion.

"Castiel—"

"Is my brother dead?"

"Who?"

A secret still, then.  Only Michael knowing, allowing it. No reason to keep it secret now, if there was no one left to protect.

"Samandriel."

"Your—oh. Yes.  You remember, the curse you rebounded, the one that struck Lucifer, nearly killed him?"

"When I broke that curse, I killed Samandriel?"

"No, Castiel." Her voice was gentle. "It wasn't your fault.  It struck the three of you, all at the same time.  Rachel, Samandriel, you.  Only you re-directed it.  Only you survived."

He barked out a harsh laugh at that idea. Survival.

"Their bodies were taken back to Heaven. A heroes' burial."

Somewhere, in a crypt, the remains of Samandriel. Cold and alone.  Little brother.  He'd never been to visit, he was sure.  Now he never would.

"I know it was painful…I saw you when Michael broke the wards on your body, but Castiel, I'm glad to have you back. Glad that you're well enough in your mind and body to have your memories back. If you can't be a soldier, being brave enough to liaison between Heaven and Hell is surely just as honorable a duty."

"My duty--?"

"The honor Michael bestowed upon you," Dean interrupted smoothly, smiling viciously. "Witnessed by all in my Hall.  The angel Castiel, commended for his actions towards peace, assigned a permanent commission in Hell. His memory and his wings, returned to him."

"An honor," Castiel parroted, mind whirling. He looked from Dean to Hannah.  Dean, smirking, as if they were in on a private joke.  Hannah, her eyes wide and bewildered.

Michael had excommunicated him.  Quietly, intimately, all the while standing over Castiel with a tender hand on Castiel's chin.  His words, Castiel realized, had been too soft to have been heard by the angels in the honor guard.  To have been heard by Hannah.

Saving face.  Michael had rid himself of a tainted angel, but no one in Heaven would be the wiser.

Hannah wouldn't know of Castiel's shame.

"It's time to leave," Dean said harshly, mockingly. "All good little angels are wanted back in Heaven."

"Is there…anything else, Castiel?"

"No," he said simply.  There wasn't. He took her arm. "I'll see you out."

 


	22. Chapter 22

Castiel had some fractured memories of her.  Hannah.  Her clear blue eyes almost translucent in the light of the rising sun. The glint of her wings when the sun was highest in the sky.  He realized, seeing her standing in the courtyard at Winchester Hall, her small honor guard behind her, that he only had memories of her on the clearest days.  The fire in her eyes, the glow of her skin, was diminished under Hell's grey sky.

"Castiel," she said, tone formal, eyes damp with some feeling more personal, as she stepped away from her soldiers and met Castiel on the stairs.  She put her hand on his arm, her own wrist clad in armor, and Castiel's' eyes traced the shape of that protective uniform.  In his mind, a curious doubling, the Castiel that Michael had seen, had commended, fresh and strong and wearing armor like Hannah's, and the Castiel after, feral and tattered, kneeling nearly mindless at Sam's feet.  He had been both those people, Castiel knew, but now he only felt a queer hollowness.

"Take care, Hannah," Castiel said.

She smiled at him, but then strangely, her mouth trembled. That brave front, the one Castiel realized she had been shoring up like a façade, was crumbling.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice miserable.  Her mouth trembled before she firmed it.

"Sorry?"

"Yes."

"None of this was your fault," Castiel said, frowning.

"It was," Hannah answered him. "When we found you…I was the one who insisted, demanded we take you back to Heaven when you were injured.  I wouldn't let it be covered up.  I know Michael didn't want to, that he was appalled at the state you were in, your injuries. But everyone had seen you, seen you reverse that curse and take down Lucifer.  You were a hero.  I made it clear that I wouldn't say you'd been killed in battle, wouldn't let them give you a hero's death. I wouldn't let them put you down, or leave you to your fate in Hell.  I made them bring you home."

"Home," Castiel echoed.  Where that was, he no longer knew.

"I don't know if I did the right thing!"

"I've seen myself through Michael's eyes," Castiel said gently. "And in some ways, I now remember. I was crippled. Shattered.  I don’t think I would have got the healing in Hell that I got in Heaven.  As it stands, I'm patched up much better than I expected."

Hannah bit her lip. "You weren't better.  Anna said you were miserable…that you weren't quite right?"

"Anna?" Castiel was startled.  His friend.  Was…was she his friend?  He wasn't sure he could trust anything of that life that had been manufactured for him. The need to search, to break past the remaining shroud hiding his past, nagged at him.  _Don't scratch that wall._   He refrained with effort.

"They wouldn't let me see you," Hannah said fiercely. "Getting one of the librarians to keep me updated…it was the best I could do."

Her hand tightened on Castiel's arm, and Castiel remembered now, this same tone in her voice on some other unnamed day.  Hannah's determination.  Her caring. Friends, the one bond all angels were allowed.  They had been friends. That had been taken from him.  His new identity, his new life, had encouraged solitude. Probably an aspect of the memory spells Michael had ordered placed on him, Castiel thought.  He was tainted, Fallen.  He couldn't be allowed to corrupt anyone else.

As if Hannah could sense the direction of Castiel's thoughts, she blurted out, "Maybe it would have been better if you stayed in Heaven. I wish the memory spells had held!"

The words, unwitting as they were, hurt so much Castiel almost flinched away from her.  But he kept himself still, his face as bland as possible.

"They held," he said reassuringly. "Mostly.  Some of it crept through.  Dreams I guess. Feelings. Maybe some animal-level instinct."

"They didn't hold," Hannah said, frown creasing her brow. "Cas…oh, you don’t know, of course you don't know. The first time they cast them, they failed.  The illusion failed.  It took three attempts for them to get your new identity to stick somewhat."

"They failed?"

A small smile crept onto Hannah's face. "Or you broke them."

"Broke them?"

"You always were the best at that," Hannah said, voice bittersweet. "The best curse breaker.  You took down Lucifer.  You took down those fake walls.  It's why…why I hope this was the right choice.  You coming back here."

Castiel cocked his head, confused.

"When you broke the memory sigils," Hannah continued, "you always did the same thing.  The exact same thing.  You headed straight for Hell. It was like you knew…your duty was still here."

For Sam.  Was it the curse from breaking Sam's chains, or some deeper connection?  Castiel might never know. He looked up into Hannah's shining eyes, her flushed cheeks, and suddenly realized what she needed from him.

"I'm well here," he said, keeping his voice as encouraging as possible. "It was the right decision."

"Your injuries…these demons…you'll be cared for?"

Like a pet.  Like a child.  Like an angel broken in mind and body.  Castiel pictured the angels in the tower.  Hell's secrets.  Or Heaven's. They were the same yet not the same, and this was the only place left for Castiel.

Yet not the same.  He had purpose here, a job that he thrilled to. And lovers, two of them.  It was hardly the relationship he had dreamed of, reading books alone in his apartment in the Archives.  Or maybe that was manufactured as well, fake.  No, Michael had said he was unable to disrupt Castiel's hopes and dreams.  So now he had the affection and attention he had always craved, but not at all like the quiet, sweet partnership he once imagined.

"I am well here," Castiel repeated and bent his head, placing a dry kiss on Hannah's cheek.  He choked out the words he knew he needed to say. "You did the right thing.  I am well enough to have back what was taken from me, to be in my own mind again. Michael has honored me, and I have purpose again.  In his name, Hannah."

"In his name. Castiel…"

"You should go," Castiel said.  He stepped away, crossed his arms across his chest against the cold.  A coat, he thought absently, would be essential.

He would have to bargain for one soon.

"Be well," Hannah said, and she stepped back and then down the stairs, coming to a formal stance before her honor guard.  She gave him one last nod and then she and her warriors were in flight, wings sending up a buffet of fine grit, as they took to the sky and were soon out of sight.

He would write, Castiel thought, then realized, with a sharp pang, that his letters would never reach her. He would probably never see her again, unless Heaven met Hell on the battlefield.

He would do his best to keep that from ever happening.

In a way, despite the pain, he felt a sense of satisfaction.  Michael had tasked him with a duty that served Heaven, and although Castiel hadn't known it, he had performed that assignment.  He no longer worshipped Michael, but it seemed fitting that the last thing he had ever done for Heaven had been in Michael's service.

He turned back toward Winchester Hall, turned his back on Heaven, far off on the horizon, and went inside to find his new life.


End file.
